^SBDKVSm^       %)]/ 


<5JAE-UNIVER%        .vlOS- 
cy  —^  *~*     ^ 


3> 

5 


=    .< 


^\\EUNIVER%       ^lOS-AKGElfj^, 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

MARTHA  BY-THE-DAY 

The  story  of  a  big  kindly  Irish  char 
woman,  a  marvel  of  physical  strength  and 
shrewd  humor,  who  takes  under  her  wing 
a  well-born  but  friendless  girl  whom  she 
finds  alone  and  helpless  in  New  York. 

"  No  sweeter  humor  has  been  written  into 
a  book." — Hartford  Courant. 

10th  Printing 
$1.00  net,  by  mail  $1.10 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 


By 
JULIE   M.   LIPPMANN 

Author  of  "  Martha  By-the-Day  " 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

1914 


COPYRIGHT,  1913, 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


Published  October,  1913 

Reprinted  November  (.twicej,  December,  1913 
January,  May,  August,  1914 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 


152282: 


o 

V 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 


CHAPTER  I 

1Y/T  ARTHA  SLAWSON  sat  at  her  sewing-machine, 
stitching  away  for  dear  life.  About  her,  bil 
lowed  yards  upon  yards  of  white  cotton  cloth,  which, 
in  its  uncut  length,  shifted,  as  she  worked,  almost 
imperceptibly  piling  up  a  snowy  drift  in  front  of  her, 
drawn  from  the  snowy  drift  behind.  This  gradual 
ebb  and  flow  was  all  that  marked  any  progress  in 
her  labor,  and  her  husband,  coming  in  after  some 
hours  of  absence  and  finding  her,  apparently,  pre 
cisely  where  he  had  left  her,  was  moved  to  ask  what 
manner  of  garment  she  was  making. 

"  'Tain't  a  garment  at  all,  Sam.     It's  a  motta." 

"  A  motto?  "  Sam  fairly  gasped. 

Martha  put  on  more  speed,  then  took  her  feet 
from  the  treadle,  her  hands  from  the  cloth-plate. 

"  I  guess  you  forgot  what's  goin'  to  happen,  ain't 
you?"  she  returned,  sitting  back  in  her  chair,  look 
ing  up  at  him  amiably. 

Sam  squared  his  great  shoulders.  "  Going  to  hap 
pen?  Oh,  you  mean — you  mean — Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Ronald  coming  home?  " 

"  Sure  I  do !  " 

"  Well,  but  I  don't  see " 


2  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  I  didn't  suppose  you  would  see.  Men  ain't  much 
on  seein'  where  sentiment's  concerned.  They  go  it 
blind,  an'  that's  a  fack.  I  s'pose  a  man  would  let 
a  gen'lman  an'  lady  come  back  from  their  weddin'- 
tour  (which  they  been  gone  'most  a  year  on  it), 
and  never  think  o'  givin'  'em  a  welcome  home,  any 
more  than  to  find  their  house  an'  grounds  kep'  up, 
an'  their  bills  kep'  down,  an'  everything  in  tip-top 
order.  But,  with  a  woman  it's  different.  I'm  goin' 
to  give  Miss  Claire  an'  Lord  Ronald  a  reception 
that  is  a  reception.  Somethin'  they  won't  forget  in 
a  hurry.  I'm  goin'  to  have  lantrens  in  the  trees,  an' 
a  arch  of  laurel  over  the  gateposts,  an'  then,  as  they 
come  on  in,  they'll  see  my  motta  strung  acrost  the 
driveway — 

HAIL  TO  THE  CHIEF! 

in  big  yella  letters,  hemmed  down  on  this  white. 
An'  the  childern,  all  four  of  'em,  is  to  sing  it,  besides. 
Don't  you  remember,  they  learned  it  at  school  down 
home — I  should  say,  in  New  York,  that  time  the 
president  come  back,  an'  all  the  public-school  childern 
sung'm  a  welcome?  " 

Sam  bit  his  lip.  "  Yes,  but  that  was  a  little  dif 
ferent.  Somehow,  I  think  HAIL  TO  THE 
BRIDE  might  be  better,  don't  you?  " 

"  No  !  "  said  Martha,  with  decision.  "  First  place, 
she  ain't  exackly  a  bride  by  this  time.  When  a  lady's 
been  married  almost  a  year,  an'  traveled  'round  the 
world  in  the  meanwhile,  I  wouldn't  call  her  a  bride. 
An',  besides,  it  wouldn't  be  polite  to  single  her  out, 
an'  sorta  leave  him  in  the  cold.  Everybody  knows 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  3 

bridegrooms  don't  cut  much  of  a  figga,  but  you 
needn't  rub  it  in.  No,  I  thought  it  over  careful,  an' 
HAIL  TO  THE  CHIEF  is  what  I  decided  on. 
HAIL  TO  THE  CHIEF  lets  us  out  on  responsi 
bility.  It's  up  to  them  to  prove  which  it  hits,  see?  " 

Whether  Sam  did  or  didn't,  he  made  no  further 
comment.  He  went  and  sat  himself  down  in  his 
own  particular  chair,  took  up  from  the  center-table 
the  latest  number  of  The  New  England  Farmer, 
and  commenced  studying  it  assiduously. 

A  second  later,  the  machine  was  in  motion  again, 
running  with  great  velocity,  impelled  by  Martha's 
tireless  foot. 

Mrs.  Slawson  did  not  look  up,  when  the  eldest 
of  her  four  children,  just  home  from  school,  came  in, 
and  made  straight  for  her  side. 

"Mother-r-r!" 

No  answer. 

"Say,  mother-r-r!" 

"  For  goodness'  sake,  Cora,  let  go  that  R.  The 
way  you  hang  on  to  it,  you'd  think  you  was  drownin', 
an'  it  was  a  lifeline.  Besides,  d'you  know  what  I 
decided  to  do  ?  I  decided  to  strike.  For  the  rest  o' 
this  week,  I  ain't  answerin'  to  the  name  o' 
4  Mother-r-r.'  See?  There  ain't  a  minute  in  the 
day,  when  some  one  o'  you  childern  ain't  shoutin' 
it — you,  or  Francie,  or  Sammy,  or  Sabina — an'  it's 
got  on  my  nerves,  as  Mrs.  Sherman  says.  You  can 
call  me  '  Martha  '  or  '  Little  Sunshine  '  or  anythin' 
else  you  got  a  mind  to,  but  '  Mother-r-r,'  not  on  your 
life." 


4  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"Say,  moth !" 

"  Look  out,  now!  " 

"  What  you  sewin'  on?  " 

"  The  machine." 

"  Pooh,  you  know  I  don't  mean  that.  What  you 
making?  Anything  for  me?" 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"  Well,  what  are  you,  then  ?  " 

"  I'm  a  perfeck  lady,  an'  I'm  makin'  a  motta  that 
proves  it." 

"  Mother-r-r,  I  think  you're  real  mean.  All  the 
girls  at  school  have  fancier  clo'es  'n  I  got,  an'  I 
think  you  just  might  make  me  some  new  ones,  so 
there!" 

"  Sure  I  might!  "  admitted  Mrs.  Slawson  blandly. 

Cora's  lip  went  out.  "Then,  why  don't  you? 
You  got  as  much  time  as  any  other  girl's  mother. 
Ann  Upton's  mother  makes  all  Ann's  dresses  'n' 
things,  an'  she's  got  twice's  many  as  I  got.  She  had 
a  new  dress,  when  school  took  in,  in  September,  an' 
she  got  another  new  one,  'round  about  New 
Year's,  and  now  she's  got  another  new  one  for 
summer." 

Martha  stroked  down  a  seam  with  deliberation. 
"  That's  nice  for  Ann,  ain't  it,  havin'  so  many?  She 
can  spell  'm,  as  they  say  here.  When  she  gets  tired 
o'  wearin'  one  dress,  she  can  change  to  another,  an' 
look  like  one  o'  them  fashion-plates  from  mornin' 
till  night,  an'  feel  like " 

"  I  been  wearing  the  same  old  thing  ever  since 
I  was  born,"  continued  Cora,  disregarding  her 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA'  5 

mother's  irrelevant  remark,  continuing  her  lamenta 
tion  as  if  it  had  not  been  interrupted. 

"  Which  shows  it  was  good  mater'al  to  begin 
with,"  retorted  Martha.  "  Ann  Upton's  mother 
prob'ly  buys  cheap  goods  with  no  wear  in  'em." 

"  She  don't  either.  It's  just  she  wants  to  have 
Ann  stylish.  You  don't  care  a  bit  if  I  ain't 
stylish." 

"  Certaintly  I  don't.  I  got  other  things  on  my 
mind.  I  don't  care  a  fig  if  you're  stylish  or  not.  I 
never  was  much  on  style  myself,  an'  I  got  along  all 
right.  I  mixed  with  the  best  s'ciety  in  New  York 
City,  I  can  tell  you,  young  lady.  Nobody  coulda 
went  to  the  houses  o'  tonier  folks  than  I  did,  an' 
was  made  welcome  too,  an'  don't  you  forget  it.  An' 
the  complaints,  if  I  missed  a  day!  You'd  be  sur 
prised  !  These  young  ladies  that  think  o'  nothin'  but 
style,  you  can  take  it  from  me,  their  outsides  is  all 
there  is  to'm.  They  got  nothin'  else  to  think  of,  an' 
nothin'  to  think  of  it  with,  if  they  had  it." 

"  Well,  I  don't  care,  I  wisht  you  was  like  Mrs. 
Upton !  " 

"Now,  what  do  you  think  o'  that!  D'you  hear 
what  Cora  says,  father?  Cora  don't  like  the  style 
o'  mother  you  picked  out  for  her.  She's  just  fairly 
disgusted  with  your  taste  in  ladies." 

Sam  Slawson  did  not  hear,  or,  if  he  heard,  did 
not  heed,  and  Cora  proceeded,  unabashed: 

"  Mrs.  Upton  does  her  own  work,  an' 

"That  all?  Most  anybody  could  do  their  own 
work,  seems  to  me.  That's  dead  easy.  It's  when 


6  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

you  do  your  own  work,  an'  sever'l  other  people's  be 
sides,  that  you're  ap'  to  be  some  occupied,"  observed 
Mrs.  Slawson. 

"  Well,  I  don't  care  what  you  say,  I  just  think  I 
might  have  a  new  dress — Dutch  neck,  with  short 
sleeves." 

"  Before  you  wanta  wear  a  Dutch  neck,  you  got 
to  have  a  Dutch  neck.  You  ain't  a  modern  bath 
room,  that  you  must  show  you  got  exposed  pipes. 
Better  cover  up  your  bones,  an'  think  less  about 
what  you're  wearin'.  I  got  more  to  do  than  waste 
time  fussin'  about  such  trivolous  things,  so  you  better 
make  up  your  mind  you're  goin'  to  skip  this 
fashion." 

"  Well,   I  wisht  you'd  make  me  a  new  dress," 

wailed  Cora,  returning  to  her  muttons  undaunted. 

'  You  ain't  too  busy.     Last  night,  before  I  went  to 

bed,  I  saw  you  sittin'  down,  an'  you  weren't  doin' 

anythin',  either,  only  mendin'  Sammy's  pants." 

Sam  Slawson  raised  his  head. 

*  That's  right,  Cora.  Make  your  mother  be 
busy!  She  don't  work  hard  enough,  as  it  is.  Get 
a  hump  on,  mother!  Get  a  hump  on." 

"  If  I  get  another  hump  on,  besides  the  one  I  al 
ready  got,  I'll  be  a  drumederry,"  observed  Mrs. 
Slawson  imperturbably,  while  Cora  left  the  room  in 
tears,  her  sense  of  injury  swelling  beyond  her  power 
of  control,  when  her  father's  irony  proved  he  was 
siding  with  "  mother  "  against  her. 

'  The  next  time  Cora  gets  fresh,  and  calls  you 
down,  Martha,  I  just  wish  you'd  turn  her  over  to 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  7 

me,  and  let  me  give  her  what  she  deserves,"  sug 
gested  Sam,  as  soon  as  the  door  was  shut. 

"  Give  her  what  she  deserves?  You  couldn't.  It'd 
take  too  long,  besides  exhaustin'  you  too  much.  But, 
I  thank  you  kindly  for  offerin'.  Barrin'  a  few  airs  an' 
graces,  Cora's  all  right,  an'  when  she  ain't,  I'm  not 
too  delicate  yet,  with  easy  livin',  but  what  I  can  give 
her  a  lickin'  that'll  dust  some  of  her  fancy  frills 
off'n  her.  When  young  'uns  gets  along  to  a  certain 
age,  they're  apter  than  not  to  get  outa  sorts  an' 
feel  they  didn't  have  a  fair  show  on  parents.  I  been 
there  myself,  an'  I  see  it  work  in  other  fam'lies.  It 
may  surprise  you,  Sam,  but  the  young  is  hard,  hard 
as  nails.  Only,  nails  has  the  advantage.  Nails  has 
heads.  You  got  somethin'  to  tie  to  with  them.  But 
young  folks  is  smooth  and  hard,  an',  when  you  think 
you  got'm  trained  good,  that's  just  the  time  they 
slip  out  from  under  your  fingers,  an'  go  spinnin'  off, 
goodness  knows  where,  away  from  you — like  them 
pretty-appearin'  candy  balls  that  looks  sweet,  but 
you  break  your  jawbones  tryin'  to  put  a  tooth  in'm. 
All  you  can  do  is  lick'm  oncet  in  a  while.  An'  it's 
just  the  same  with  childern." 

"  Well,  I  won't  have  Cora  giving  you  impudence, 
mother.  If  she  hasn't  the  sense  to  appreciate  you, 
at  least  I  won't  stand  by  and  hear  her  tongue- 
lashing  you." 

Martha  bowed.  u  '  Thank  you — thank  you,  sir, 
she  said,  your  kindness  I  never  shall  forget!  '  All 
the  same,  I'll  tell  you  this,  right  now,  Sammy,  I  cer- 
taintly  got  to  set  to  an'  begin  puttin'  in  some  modren 


8  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

improvements  onto  me,  for  I  begun  to  notice,  I  don't 
really  suit  nobody  but  you,  the  way  I  am.  I'm  too 
old-fashioned  or  somethin',  to  please,  nowadays. 
Quite  a  lotta  people  has  delicately  hinted  to  me, 
lately,  I'd  be  a  whole  lot  more  satisfactory,  if  I  was 
altogether  differnt.  There's  my  childern.  As  I  just 
told  you,  I  don't  seem  to  be  the  style  o'  mother 
they'd  select  at  all,  if  they  was  out  shoppin'  for 
mothers,  an'  had  what  Mrs.  Sherman  calls  Carte 
Blanche  with  'em — whoever  she  is.  An'  it's  the  same 
with  Ma.  I  never  really  did  suit  Ma  for  a  daughter- 
in-law  from  the  start.  She  could  tell  you  (an'  does) 
a  hunderd  ways  I'd  be  better,  with  alterations,  only 
I  been  that  took  up,  tendin'  to  her  wants,  ever  since 
you  an'  me  was  married,  I  ain't  had  time  to  put  the 
alterations  in.  An',  then,  there's " 

"  Say,  Martha,"  interposed  Sam,  lowering  his 
voice  to  an  almost  inaudible  whisper,  "  here's  Mrs. 
Peckett  coming  up  the  walk.  If  you've  got  any 
thing  'round  you  don't  want  advertised  all  over  the 
place,  you'd  better  put  it  out  of  sight,  hadn't  you?  " 

For  answer  Mrs.  Slawson  leaned  over,  plucked 
up  the  material  next  her,  at  its  nearest  available 
point,  and  gave  its  length  a  flourish  that  sent  it 
billowing  conspicuously  half  across  the  floor. 

Sam  shrugged. 

u  My,  my!  "  ejaculated  Martha,  looking  around, 
and  speaking  with  loud  distinctness,  "  if  here  ain't 
Mrs.  Peckett  1" 

Through  the  open,  screened  window,  Mrs.  Peckett 
inquired,  with  elephantine  playfulness  (physically, 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  9 

she  was  built  on  almost  as  heroic  a  scale  as  Martha 
herself),  "Got  any  place  for  a  tired  little  girl  to 
rest?" 

"  Sure  we  have,"  said  Mrs.  Slawson.  "  Come 
right  along  in  !  " 

Another  moment,  and  Mrs.  Peckett  had  obeyed. 

"  Take  that  chair  there,  the  one  alongside  the 
table,  with  the  cushion  in.  It's  the  comfortablest  we 
got — just  suits  that  holla  in  your  back,  that,  Ma 
says,  hers  always  needs  restin' — an'  Ma's  a  cham- 
peean  on  restin'.  She  knows  how  to  do  it  in  seven 
differnt  languages.  You'll  excuse  my  goin'  on  with 
what  I'm  doin'  ?  I  can  talk  while  I  work." 

Mrs.  Peckett  lowered  herself  gradually  into  the 
proffered  chair  with  the  air  of  one  accustomed  to 
distrust  the  good  intentions  of  furniture. 

"  Certainly,  I'll  excuse  you.     What  you  doing?" 

"  Sewing,"  said  Martha  agreeably. 

"  Sheeting?  "  Mrs.  Peckett  inquired. 

Martha  considered.  "  Well,  I  s'pose  you  might 
call  it  sheeting,"  she  admitted.  "  Down  home — I 
should  say  in  New  York  City — we  call  it  muslin,  but 
up  here  it's  cotton-cloth.  I'm  trying  to  remember 
the  differences.  I  don't  believe  in  lettin'  things  go 
into  one  eye,  an'  outa  the  other  ear,  so  you  never 
profit  by  your  exper'ences.  I  believe  in  livin'  an' 
learnin',  if  you  die  in  the  attemp'." 

"  This  ain't  very  fine  quality,"  observed  Mrs. 
Peckett,  stooping  and  picking  up  an  end  of  the  ma 
terial  to  examine  it  critically  through  her  thick-lensed 
spectacles. 


io  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

Martha  sighed.  "  Dear  me !  how  sorry  I  am. 
But  I  never  was  much  of  a  cornersewer,  as  Mrs. 
Sherman  says,  on  white  goods,  an'  that's  a  fack." 

"  I'm  afraid  you  won't  have  much  wear  out  of 
it,"  pronounced  the  oracle.  "  You'll  have  to  get  new 
sheets  in  no  time.  These'll  go  through  before  you 
know  it.  The  next  time  you  want  to  buy  sheeting, 
or  anything  of  that  sort,  you  just  come  to  me.  I'll 
advise  you." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Martha. 

"  I  always  heard  tell,  city  folks  wa'n't  much  of 
any  in  the  housekeeping  line,  and  I  suspicion  it's 
true.  They're  too  busy  gallivanting  the  streets  to 
look  after  their  houses.  For  myself,  I  don't  mind 
telling  you,  I  don't  set  much  store  by  city  folks." 

"You  don't  say!" 

"  We  get  a  good  mess  of  'em  up  here,  summers. 
Rich  and  poor,  and  if  we  '  natives,'  as  they  call  us, 
ain't  glad  to  see  them  go  away  every  fall,  I  wouldn't 
say  so.  /  don't  like  'em!  " 

"  What's  your  objection?  " 

"  Well,  the  rich  ones  are  stuck  up,  and  the  poor 
ones  are  low  down.  You  never  saw  such  nuisances 
as  those  Fresh  Air  children!  Several  of  our  ladies 
take  them  in,  every  summer,  for  a  spell,  but  / 
wouldn't  have  one  of  them  in  my  house,  tracking 
mud  and  dirt  in  on  my  clean  floors — not  for  any 
thing  I  can  think  of.  Mrs.  Fred  Trenholm,  who 
lives  down  at  Milby's  Corners,  she  took  in  three  last 
season.  You  should  have  seen  them  at  church.  Un 
godly  don't  express  it!  Didn't  know  the  creed 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  n 

even.     Couldn't  sit  still  through  divine  worship,  on 
the  Sabbath,  like  Christians." 

"  Likely  that's  because  most  of'm's  Jews,"  Martha 
observed  calmly.  "  But  that's  as  far  as  the  differ 
ence  goes.  Their  lungs  needs  just  as  much  good 
air  to  breathe  as  little  Christians'  lungs.  An'  their 
stummicks  call  for  the  same  sorta  nourishment.  My 
childern  can  say  off  the  creed,  an'  their  colic,  fine, 
but  I  wouldn't  wanta  have  my  life  depend  on  bein' 
able  to  tell  the  dirt  on  their  shoes  from  the  dirt 
on  the  little  Sheenies'.  Nor  I  wouldn't  want  to  die 
for  the  number  o'  times  mine  wriggle  less  than  they 
do.  Childern  is  childern,  the  world  over,  an'  this 
idea  of  your  beia'  nearer  heaven  when  you  was  a 
child,  like  Cora's  piece  says,  is  rot — I  beg  your  par 
don  ! — nonsense !  There's  where  lots  o'  folks  slip  up 
on  childern.  They  go  on  the  idea  that  young  'uns 
are  angels  to  begin  with,  an'  they  break  their  hearts 
to  see  'em  runnin'  down,  as  they  grow  up.  The 
truth  is,  it's  just  the  other  way  'round.  Childern  is 
little  animals  at  the  start.  You  got  to  housebreak'm, 
an'  train'm,  till  they  learn  the  tricks  o'  decent  peo 
ple,  an'  it's  only  little  by  little  they  get  sense  to 
know.  Every  time  I  lick  my  young  'uns,  I  feel  kinda 
mean.  They're  doin'  almost  as  good  as  they  know 
how,  like  the  rest  of  us.  Only  o'  course  it  can't  be 
helped.  You  got  to  lick'm  some,  to  make'm  under 
stand.  Their  constitutions  seem  to  demand  it.  I 
try  to  bring  mine  up  the  way,  it  looks  to  me,  as  if 
the  Lord  was  tryin'  to  bring  up  us.  Lick'm  thora, 
when  necessary,  an'  then,  bear  no  malice.  As  I 


12  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

make  it  out,  that's  His  way,  an'  I  don't  see  how  to 
improve  on  it  much.  But  I  interrupted  you.  You 
was  talkin'  about  how  you  don't  like  city  folks,  an' 
you'd  got  as  far  as  the  childern." 

Mrs.  Peckett's  nearsighted  eyes  searched  Martha's 
face  shrewdly,  for  a  second. 

"  I  was  just  thinking  that  city  folks'  ways  ain't 
our  ways,  that's  all.  Now,  I'd  think  pretty  poorly 
of  myself  to  go  out  of  my  gate,  of  a  morning,  and 
not  pass  the  time  of  day  with  a  neighbor.  But  I 
hear  tell,  that's  what  city  folks  do.  They  would 
let  you  live  next  door — in  the  same  street  with  them, 
for  a  year,  and  never  know  you." 

"  Sure !  "  said  Martha  cheerfully.  "  I  lived  in 
the  same  house  over  five  years,  before  I  come  up  here, 
an',  with  the  exception  of  a  Dutchman  gen'lman  an' 
his  wife,  acrost  the  hall,  I  wasn't  on  visitin'  terms 
with  any  of  the  tenants.  I  was  too  busy  tendin'  to 
my  own  affairs.  The  way  I  come  to  know  the  Dutch 
man  gen'lman  was  kinda  accidental, — on  account 
o'  circumstances  over  which  he  had  no  control  at  the 
time,  but  did  later  on.  Him  an'  me  grew  to  be 
real  chummy,  after  he  oncet  got  on  to  it  I  meant 
business.  He  gave  me  our  cat  Nixcomeraus,  that's  a 
boss  mouser  now,  which  it  was  only  a  kitten  then. 
But,  as  a  gener'l  rule,  we  kep'  ourselves  to  our 
selves." 

"  Well,  I  don't  call  that  Christian  conduct,"  pro 
nounced  Mrs.  Peckett.  "  It  looks  heathen  to  me,  and 
it  certainly  ain't  according  to  Scripture.  We  are  all 
brethern  and " 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  13 

"  Cistern,"  Martha  suggested  benevolently. 

"  And  we'd  ought  to  live  as  such.  I  like  to  know 
what's  going  on,  and  keep  in  touch  with  the  folks 
I'm  living  amongst,  but  do  you  think  those  city  folks 
encourage  a  body's  running  in  and  out  freely?  Well, 
I  should  say  not.  They're  a  stiff-necked  generation 
— summer  folks.  Nobody  can  say  I'm  a  busybody, 
or  pushing,  or  the  like  of  that.  Time  and  again  I  say 
to  Mr.  Peckett,  '  Folks  do  altogether  too  much 
mixing  in  with  other  folks'  affairs.'  You  wouldn't 
believe  the  way  Mr.  Peckett  and  I  are  bothered,  all 
the  time,  with  people  calling  on  us  for  charity,  to 
help  them  out  of  their  troubles — just  because  it's 
known  to  all  we  are  forehanded,  and  have  property. 
But  I  always  say  to  Mr.  P.,  '  Now,  don't  be  too 
quick.  Just  wait  till  the — till  the '  " 

"  Clouds  roll  by,"  supplied  Mrs.  Slawson  again. 

"  And,  sure  enough,  the  next  time  we  see  the 
party,  ten  to  one,  somebody  else  has  helped  them 
out,  and  there's  no  need  of  our  mixing  in  at  all.  No, 
nobody  can  say  I  want  to  push  myself.  I  always  tell 
Mr.  Peckett  I  ain't  a  mite  curious,  but  I  confess  I 
am  terribly  interested,  which  is  altogether  different, 
and  what  the  Bible  tells  us  to  be." 

"  Well,  well !  Now,  what  do  you  think  o'  that !  " 
said  Martha.  "  I  wouldn'ta  known  the  difference." 

Mrs.  Peckett  paused,  as  if  to  weigh  her  words. 
"  I  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  she  announced  with  the 
air  of  fully  appreciating  the  measure  of  her  kindness, 
and  wanting  Mrs.  Slawson  to  appreciate  it,  too,  "  I'll 
take  you  in  hand.  Whenever  you  want  to  know  any- 


14  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

thing,  all  you  have  to  do  is  come  to  me,  and  I'll  tell 
you.  I'll  consider  it  a  pleasure.  I  can  see  where 
there's  a  lot  for  you  to  learn.  The  city  is  a  poor 
place  to  be  brought  up  and  live  in,  all  your  life,  with 
its  vice,  and  its  selfishness,  and  the  like  of  that.  But, 
now  you've  come  here,  you'll  see  something  differ 
ent.  Why,  you'll  feel  made  over,  when  you've 
learned  our  honest,  generous  country  ways." 

Seeing  Mrs.  Peckett  rise  cumbersomely,  in  prep 
aration  for  departure,  Martha  also  got  upon  her 
feet. 

"  Well,  I  declare,"  she  ejaculated  blandly,  "  just 
before  you  come  in,  I  was  tellin'  my  husband  the 
time  had  come  when  I'd  got  to  do  somethin'  or 
other,  so's  I  wouldn't  be  so  old-style,  an'  shame  my 
fam'ly.  An'  here  you  are,  offerin'  to  improve  me, 
free  grates  for  nothin',  as  Miss  Claire,  bless  her! 
says.  It's  like  Providence's  finger  in  the  pie,  an'  no 
mistake.  But  I'm  afraid  I'll  be  puttin'  you  out  too 
much.  They  say,  it's  hard  to  learn  an  old  dog  new 
tricks." 

Mrs.  Peckett  was  a  fleshy  woman;  all  her  move 
ments  had  a  certain  air  of  unctuousness.  She  shook 
her  head,  with  reassuring,  easy  patronage. 

"  Not  at  all,"  she  said,  "  I'll  admire  to " 

The  door  banged  open,  interrupting  her  uncere 
moniously,  and  the  Slawson  son  and  heir,  Sammy 
junior,  heated  and  perspiring,  breathless  but  com 
municative,  burst  noisily  into  the  room. 

"My,  my!"  ejaculated  Martha.  "I  guess  you 
think  you're  a  engine,  don't  you?  Pantin'  like  that, 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  15 

's  if  you  was  luggin'  a  train  o'  cars  behind  you? 
Hats  off  to  ladies.  Don't  you  see  Mrs.  Peckett? 
Say  how  de  do,  like  a  gen'lman." 

Sammy  bobbed  an  awkward  pate.  "  Say, 
mother-r-r,"  he  stammered. 

"Well?" 

"  There's  that  big  place,  'way  along  up  the  little 
side  street,  I  mean  road,  past  the  cimiterry.  You 
can't  but  just  see  the  house,  it's  so  far  back,  an' " 

"  He  means  old  lady  Crewe's,  I  reckon,"  ex 
plained  Mrs.  Peckett.  "  She's  one  of  the  summer 
folks,  I've  just  been  telling  you  about.  Rolling  in 
money,  but  as  hard  and  close  as  a  clinched  fist.  No 
body  knows  how  much  she's  worth." 

"  P'raps  she's  the  kind  that  don't  let  her  right 
hand  know  what  her  left  hand's  got." 

'  Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,  but  she  has  con 
siderable  of  a  place.  Enough  to  keep  a  whole  regi 
ment  of  regular  hired  help  busy,  an'  every  summer 
she  comes  up  from  the  city,  with  just  her  young 
gran'-daughter,  and  they  make  out  to  get  along,  as 
best  they  can,  trusting  to  get  hold  of  parties,  here 
abouts,  willing  to  accommodate.  That's  no  proper 
way  to  do." 

Martha  smoothed  back  the  hair  from  Sammy's 
damp  forehead,  making  it  out,  somehow,  that  he  had 
more  to  say,  and  calming  his  impatience  to  say  it. 

"  An',  mother-r-r,  I  was  walkin'  along  the  road, 
an'  a  awful  pretty  lady,  she  called  out  to  me  from  the 
garden,  an'  I  went,  an'  she  said  her  gran'ma  was 
took  sick,  or  somethin',  an'  there  wasn't  nobody  she 


16  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

could  send  to  get  the  doctor,  but  'ceptin'  me,  coz  I 
was  goin'  along,  an',  I  said  I'd  tell  the  doctor,  an* 
she  said " 

"  I  don't  envy  you  your  job,"  Mrs.  Peckett  inter 
posed.  "  It'll  be  like  hunting  a  needle  in  a  hay 
stack  to  find  Dr.  Driggs,  this  time  of  day.  He  may 
be  'most  anywheres  out  in  the  open  kentry.  But 
one  thing's  pretty  certain,  he  won't  be  home." 

"  Is  he  the  one  lives  down  in  the  village,  on  the 
main  street,  with  a  office  which  the  door  is  'round 
the  corner  as  you  go  to  the  station?"  Martha  in 
quired.  "  We're  such  a  husky  crowd,  the  lot  of 
us,  we  don't  ever  need  a  doctor,  and  I  wouldn'ta 
knew,  except  I  happened  to  notice  oncet,  passin', 
he  had  such  a  funny  doormat.  There  was  Salve 
done  into  it — white  pebbles  stuck  in  the  wire  nettin'. 
Now,  what  do  you  think  o'  that!  It  didn't  say  what 
kind,  either.  Just  Salve.  Wouldn't  you  think  Pills 
woulda  been  better?  There's  more  pills  used,  any 
day  in  the  year,  'n  salve.  But,  if  he's  stuck  on  salve, 
why,  he's  the  doctor!  Only — that  don't  help  us  get 
him,  does  it?  You  won't  mind  my  runnin'  off,  an' 
leavin'  you,  Mis'  Peckett?  But  I  guess  I  better 
be  movin'  in  the  direction  o'  the  Crewe  place.  An', 
father,  s'pose  you  get  a  move  on,  like  a  good  fella, 
an'  see  if  you  can't  scare  up  somethin'  somewheres 
that'll  answer  to  the  name  o'  doctor,  when  you  call 
it.  If  you  use  the  auta,  you'll  make  better  time,  an' 
you  might  overtake  me,  walkin'." 

Mrs.  Peckett  laid  a  restraining  hand  on  Martha's 
shoulder.  "  Now  don't  you  stir  a  step,"  she  admon- 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  17 

ished.  "  It's  full  two  miles  to  walk  to  the  Crewe 
place,  and  the  traveling's  heavy,  on  account  of  the 
dry  spell.  By  the  time  you  get  there,  most  likely 
somebody  else  will  have  passed  with  a  team,  and 
you'll  have  your  trouble  for  your  pains.  It  won't 
hurt  them  a  mite  to  go  out  of  their  way,  if  they're 
driving.  That's  what  I  say  to  Mr.  P.  '  Don't  be  too 
quick  offering.  Give  other  folks  a  chance/  Now, 
here  were  you,  not  half  an  hour  back,  saying  you'd 
like  I  should  improve  you.  Well,  this  is  your  first 
lesson.  Stay  where  you  are,  and  let  some  one  nearer 
to,  do  the  helping." 

"  Good  idea !  "  vouchsafed  Sam  Slawson  senior, 
speaking  for  the  first  time. 

As  soon  as  Mrs.  Peckett  was  well  out  of  sight  and 
hearing,  Martha  turned  reprovingly  upon  her  hus 
band. 

"  Sam  Slawson,  what  d'you  mean  by ?  " 

Sam  composedly  pulled  on  his  boots. 

"  Only  way  to  get  rid  of  her,"  he  answered  suc 
cinctly. 

"Oh!"  said  Martha,  going  to  the  cupboard, 
where  she  kept  her  store  of  simple  home  remedies. 
"  Now,  if  you're  ready,  /  am.  An',  young  Sammy, 
you  run,  an'  tell  your  gran'mother  to  give  you  chil- 
dern  bread  an'  milk  for  your  suppers.  Your  father 
an'  I  are  goin'  out.  We  mayn't  be  back  till  late." 


CHAPTER  II 

TT  was   dusk  when   Martha  reached  the    Crewe 
•*•   place. 

As  she  turned  in  at  the  entrance-gate,  she  thought 
she  saw  a  spark  of  light  prick  out  through  the  dark 
ness  of  one  of  the  upper-story  windows,  but  the 
next  instant  it  disappeared,  and  the  gloomy  house 
stood  formidably  looming  up  against  its  background 
of  dense  foliage,  facing  her,  as  with  a  challenge,  as 
black  as  ever. 

Martha  Slawson  was  not  one  to  be  intimi 
dated.  She  plodded  steadily  along  the  driveway, 
regardless  of  the  strange  sensation  of  shifty  gravel 
crunching  beneath  feet  used  to  hard  city  pavements, 
the  thickening  shadows  to  eyes  accustomed  to  the 
glare  of  electric-lighted  streets,  and  the  soft,  sur 
reptitious  stirrings  of  she-knew-not-what  among  the 
underbrush  to  ears  familiar  with  the  roar  of  the 
Elevated,  the  clang  and  dash  of  passing  surface  cars. 

"  I  don't  see  the  use  o'  them  sheds  they  build  to 
the  front  doors  o'  some  o'  the  houses,  in  these  parts, 
which  they  call'm  port  co-shares,  Sam  tells  me.  You 
can  take  it  from  me,  they're  like  to  break  your  bones, 
mountin'  the  high  step  o'  them,"  she  mused,  panting 
with  the  effort  it  had  taken  to  hoist  her  heavy 
frame  from  the  level  of  the  ground  to  that  of  the 
house-door. 

18 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  19 

"  Them  swell  ladies  must  be  considerable  of 
acrobats,  to  do  it  graceful.  I  know  /  couldn't." 

She  smoothed  down  her  disordered  garments,  and 
dusted  off  her  grimy  palms,  before  venturing  to 
search,  in  the  darkness,  for  the  bell.  She  found  it 
readily  enough,  but  it  was  some  time  before  she 
heard  the  chain-bolt  withdrawn  from  within,  a  key 
turned  in  a  resisting  lock,  a  door  unlatched.  Then, 
the  door  swung  open  inward,  on  its  heavy  hinges, 
and  Martha  found  herself  face  to  face  with  what 
she  described  next  day  to  Cora  as,  "  the  livin'  image 
o'  that  marble  statute  in  the  Metropolitan  Museum, 
down  home.  The  girl  in  the  flowin'  robes,  holdin' 
a  queer-lookin'  thing,  which  its  own  mother  wouldn't 
reco'nize  it  for  a  lamp,  in  her  hand.  You  told  me 
her  name.  Sykey,  you  said  it  was,  though  not  spelled 
that  way  on  the  slob  she  stood  on,  I  noticed.  But, 
I  take  your  word  for  it.  Well,  if  this  young  lady 
wasn't  just  like  Sykey,  lamp  an'  all!  You'd  never 
know  the  difference,  exceptin'  for  complexion." 

"  I'm  Mrs.  Slawson,"  Martha  announced  at  once. 
"  You  told  my  boy,  Sammy,  you'd  like  him  run  for 
a  doctor." 

Sykey  paused  a  moment,  bewildered.  "  Oh,  yes. 
This  afternoon.  I  remember,  now.  I  thought  he 
had  forgotten."  She  spoke  in  the  subdued  voice 
one  uses  when  there  is  sickness  in  the  house. 

"  No,  he  didn't  forget.  My  husband  is  fetchin' 
the  doctor.  But  I  come  on  ahead  to  see  if  I  couldn't 
help  out  some,  in  between  times.  My  husband  an* 
me  is  superintendent  for  Mr.  Frank  Ronald,  two 


20  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

miles  or  so  down  the  main  road.  You  know'm 
prob'ly." 

The  girl  nodded.  "  My  grandmother  was  taken 
sick  at  about  four,  this  afternoon.  She  seems  stiff 
on  one  side.  She  can't  move  her  arm,  or  her  leg, 
and  when  she  talks  it  sounds  as  if  her  tongue  were 
thick.  I  got  her  to  bed  as  well  as  I  could,  and  I 
haven't  dared  leave  her  since  for  more  than  a  minute 
at  a  time.  We've  no  telephone.  This  little  branch 
road  is  out  of  the  line  of  general  travel,  and  we've 
no  one  to  send  on  errands.  I've  sat  at  the  window 
all  the  afternoon,  hoping  a  team  would  pass,  but 
nobody  went  by  but  your  little  boy.  I  thought  I 
saw  you  come  in  a  while  ago,  and  I  hurried  down 
to  the  door,  to  let  you  in.  But  when  you  were  no 
where  to  be  seen,  I  gave  up  in  despair.  I  thought 
my  last  chance  was  gone.  I'd  have  to  spend  the 
night  alone  with  grandmother,  and— 

"  The  door?  Ain't  this  the  right  door  to  come  in 
by?"  queried  Martha. 

There  was  a  moment  of  hesitation  before  the 
answer  came.  "  Oh,  yes.  It's  the  right  door  for 
carnages.  People  afoot  generally  prefer  the  front 
way — on  account  of  the  veranda-steps,  you  know." 

Martha  gazed  at  her  companion  a  moment  in 
silence,  then  quietly  doubled  over,  in  a  fit  of  irre 
pressible  merriment. 

"  If  you'd  just  as  lief,  I'd  prefer  you  wouldn't 
tell  Sammy,  I  mean  Mr.  Slawson,"  she  said,  when 
she  could  enunciate.  "  He'd  never  get  over  my 
thinkin'  I'm  carriage-comp'ny.  An'  he'd  kill  himself 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  21 

laughin'  at  the  sight  o'  me,  climbin',  hands  an'  knees, 
up  your  high  stoop-with-no-steps,  which  the  back 
view,  lookin'  at  me  from  behind,  certaintly  musta 
been  funny.  But  I've  no  business  detainin'  you 
away  from  your  gran'ma.  D'you  think  she'd  think 
me  pushin',  if  I  give  her  a  hot  bath,  an'  a  brisk  al 
cohol  rub  ?  Sam  may  not  get  the  doctor  right  off, 
an'  a  bath  an'  a  alcohol  rub  is  as  good  as  anythin' 
I  know  of  for  a  str — for  a— 

Katherine  Crewe  searched  her  face.  "  For  a 
what?  "  she  demanded  uncompromisingly. 

"  A  poor  circulation,"  Martha  returned  imper- 
turbably. 

"  I've  no  alcohol.  There's  no  running  water  in 
the  house.  I  let  the  fire  in  the  kitchen  range  go  out 
hours  ago." 

"  Never  you  mind  about  that.  I  got  some  alcohol 
by  me,  an'  if  you  show  me  the  kitchen  range,  I'll 
show  you  a  fire  in  it,  all  right,  all  right." 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  sighed  Miss  Crewe, 
leading  the  way  through  dark  passages,  past  shad 
owy  doors,  "  but,  somehow,  a  great  load  seems  lifted 
off  my  heart,  now  you're  here.  I've  never  seen  you 
before,  but  I  feel  you're  able  to  set  everything  right." 

'  You  go  on  feelin'  that  way.  It'll  help  me  no 
end  with  the  settin' .  An',  now,  don't  you  wait  here. 
You  run  on  up  to  the  ol'  lady,  an'  I'll  be  along  pres 
ently.  I'm  used  to  kitchens.  I  can  find  all  I  need 
in'm,  an'  when  I  got  the  hot  water,  I  can  find  my 
way  out." 

"  I'm    afraid    you'll    think    the    floor    isn't    very 


22  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

clean,"  the  girl  observed  regretfully,  pausing,  with 
her  hand  upon  the  doorknob,  to  gaze  back  dubi 
ously.  "  I  suppose  it  needs  a  long-handled  scrub 
bing-brush,  and — 

By  the  light  of  the  lamp  Miss  Crewe  left  behind 
her  when  she  went,  Martha  made  a  quick  survey  of 
the  premises.  "  '  A  long-handled  scrubbing-brush,'  ' 
she  quoted  quizzically.  "  A  long-handled  Irish 
woman,  more  likely.  My,  but  it's  a  caution,  if  you 
turn  up  your  nose  at  work,  how  the  dirt  will  gather 
under  it.  It's  like  to  take  me  all  night  to  make  a 
impression  on  this  place.  The  grate  chock-full  o' 
clinkers,  an'  the  kettles — say,  but  I  didn't  say  I'd 
give  the  ol'  lady  a  hot  ww^-bath." 

For  a  few  moments  the  kitchen  resounded  with 
thunderous  echoes  to  the  vigorous  efforts  of  Mrs. 
Slawson  toward  reconstruction.  Then  followed 
other  sounds,  those  of  crackling  wood,  igniting  coals, 
bubbling  water,  escaping  steam.  In  the  midst  of  it 
all,  Sykey  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Slawson,"  she  deplored,  before  she 
had  fairly  crossed  the  threshold.  "  I'm  afraid  it's 
no  use.  Grandmother  won't  have  it.  I  told  her 
about  your  coming  and  offering  to  help,  and — she 
won't  have  it." 

Martha  nodded  reassuringly.  "  Well,  we  won't 
worry  her  talkin'  about  it,  an'  we  won't  worry  our 
selves  thinkin'  about  it.  Have  you  gotta  bath-tub 
handy?" 

"  Yes,  but " 

"Plenty    o'    towels — bath-towels?     The    fuzzy- 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  23 

wuzzy,  warm  kind  which  they  call'm  Turkish  or 
Russian,  I  don't  know  which,  but  that  gets  up  a  gen 
tle  irritation  when  applied,  just  like  some  folks." 

The  girl  nodded. 

"  Then,  the  best  thing  you  can  do  is,  get'm  ready. 
It'll  keep  your  mind  off'n  her  not  bein'  willin'.  We 
want  everything  laid  out  handy,  so's  we  won't  have 
to  go  on  a  still-hunt  the  last  minute.  I  got  plenty 
o'  water,  steamin'  hot.  If  you'll  go  along  up,  an' 
kinda  perpare  for  the  worst,  I'll  folia  along  pres 
ently,  an' — we'll  have  it." 

A  single  shaded  lamp  left  the  great  bedroom  in 
partial  shadow,  but  as  Martha  approached  the  ma 
jestic  four-poster,  about  five  minutes  later,  she  made 
out  the  figure  of  a  diminutive  old  woman,  stretched 
full  length  beneath  the  spare  coverings.  There  could 
be  nothing  formidable  in  such  a  tiny  figure.  It  was 
only  when  Mrs.  Slawson  looked  down  upon  the  face, 
that  she  met  a  pair  of  eyes  that  fairly  held  her  at  bay. 

"  I'm  Mrs.  Sammy  Slawson,"  she  announced,  a 
shade  less  confidently  than  usual.  "  I  live  down  the 
road  a  ways — superintendent  for  Mr.  Frank  Ron 
ald,  me  an'  my  husband  is." 

The  little  body  on  the  bed  might  be  half  dead,  but 
the  great  eyes  were  fiercely  alive.  They  measured 
Mrs.  Sammy  Slawson  from  head  to  foot,  with  a 
stare  of  icy  insolence. 

Martha  did  not  quail.  She  met  the  stare  with  a 
perfectly  unflinching  gaze,  then  went  on  talking  as 
she  worked,  as  calmly  as  if  she  were  not  being  chal 
lenged  in  mortal  combat. 


24  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  I  s'pose  you  don't  like  the  idea  of  a  trained 
nurse  ?  Many  don't.  I  ain't  trained,  but  I'm  a  nurse 
all  right,  all  right,  an'  if  not  one  of  the  red,  cross 
kind,  why  that's  only  because,  as  I  tell  Sammy,  I  had 
so  much  exper'ence  with  Ma  an'  the  childern  that, 
be  this  an'  be  that,  I  learned  to  keep  my  shirt  on, 
an'  not  fly  out,  when  tried.  Folks  that's  ailin'  has 
enough  bother  on  their  chests,  without  havin'  to  be 
pationate,  into  the  bargain.  It's  up  to  them  that's 
tendin'm,  to  do  the  pationate  ack.  Now,  take  me, 
for  instance.  You  couldn't  ruffle  me,  if  you  took 
a  flutin'-iron  to  me.  That's  what  come  o'  bein'  six 
teen  years  married,  with  a  mother-in-law  threw  in, 
for  good  measure.  It  learns  you  to  keep  your  tem 
per.  You  might  need  it  for  the  nex'  time.  I  don't 
blame  you  a  mite  if  you  feel  like  bitin'  the  head  off 
a  tenpenny  nail.  To  have  your  circulation  go  back 
on  you,  like,  is  a  kind  of  nuisance,  no  doubt  about 
it.  But,  sakes  alive!  It  might  happen  to  anybody, 
as  Ma  always  says  when  she  breaks  things  she  hadn't 
oughta  touched,  in  the  first  place.  The  best  thing 
I  know  of,  for  poor  circulation,  is  a  hot  bath,  an'  a 
alcohol  rub — just  for  a  starter.  I  got  plenty  o'  hot 
water  handy,  an' — now  don't  you  stir,  nor  bother 
your  head  worryin'  about  givin'  your  gran'daughter 
an'  I  trouble!  We  got  the  bath-tub  all  ready,  an' 
yes — them  towels  is  just  the  right  things !  Couldn't 
be  better!  An' — here  goes!  " 

Martha  averted  her  face,  as  she  bent  over  the 
helpless  form,  to  escape  the  furiously  battling  eyes. 
She  felt  as  mean  as  if  she  had  been  taking  base  ad- 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  25 

vantage  of  a  defenseless  creature  to  do  it  harm, 
instead  of  good;  but,  in  spite  of  this,  and  in  spite 
of  the  inarticulate  sounds  that  came  from  between 
the  twisted  lips  at  the  touch  of  her  hands,  she  gently 
lifted  the  old  woman  in  her  strong  arms,  stripped 
her,  as  she  would  a  baby,  and  put  her  in  the  tub. 

Tears  of  helpless  rage  oozed  from  between  the 
closed  lids,  but  Mrs.  Slawson  pretended  not  to  see. 
She  kept  up  a  cheerful  babble,  what  time  her  poor 
little  antagonist  simmered,  and  again  during  all  the 
time  her  firm,  strong  fingers  were  plying  away  at 
the  nerveless  flesh. 

"  Don't  you  try  to  lug  that  heavy  tub,  Miss  Crewe, 
dear.  Wait  till  I  can  lay  hand  to  it.  If  you  must 
be  doin'  somethin',  s'pose  you  smooth  down  the 
sheets,  an'  see  there's  no  crumbs  in  the  bed.  There's 
nothin'  like  crumbs  in  the  bed  for  keepin'  you  from 
feelin'  lonesome,  but  I  guess  your  gran'ma  willa  had 
enough  comp'ny,  by  the  time  she  gets  rid  o'  me. 
Poor  ol'  lady !  I  been  like  a  grain  o'  sand  in  her 
eye,  which  it  don't  help  her  none,  to  say  I'm  sorry. 

"  '  Little  drops  o'  water,  little  grains  o'  sand.' 

"  Guess  snVll  think  she's  had  her  dose  o'  both,  to 
night,  all  right.  Say!  Hark!  Is  that  a  auta-horn? 
Sounds  like  Sammy's." 

"Then  he's  brought  Dr.  Driggs!  "  Kate  Crewe 
cried  joyously. 

"  Well,  you  can  take  it  from  me  he's  brought  Dr. 
Somethin'.  It  mayn't  be  Dr.  Driggs,  but  Sammy 


« » 

26  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

wouldn't  have  the  face  to  come  to  me,  'less  he'd  got 
somethin',  that'd,  at  least,  pass  for  what  I  sent'm  out 
for,"  observed  Mrs.  Slawson  suavely. 

As  it  happened,  it  was  not  Dr.  Driggs  whom 
Sam  had  brought.  Kate  Crewe,  going  to  the  door 
to  admit  them,  saw,  even  in  the  dark,  that  neither  of 
the  men  before  her  was  of  the  familiar  build  of  the 
old  physician  she  knew  so  well.  But  there  was  no 
time  for  regret,  and,  after  a  few  brief  words  of  self- 
introduction,  she  led  the  way  upstairs. 

Meanwhile,  Martha  had  made  what  she  called  "  a 
fist "  at  clearing  away  all  traces  of  her  recent  minis 
trations,  so,  when  the  doctor  appeared,  he  found 
an  orderly  room,  from  which  she  quietly  slipped  as 
he  entered. 

Downstairs  she  found  Sam. 

"  You  see,  Dr.  Driggs  was  off  somewheres,  up  the 
mountain,  and  no  one  could  find  him,"  he  explained. 
"  I  couldn't  make  out  to  get  him,  the  best  I  could 
do.  Then  I  asked  wasn't  there  some  other  doctor 
in  the  place,  but  short  of  Burbank,  twenty-five  miles 
off,  there  wasn't.  Dr.  Driggs  has  all  the  practice 
'round  these  parts.  Then,  all  at  once,  somebody  hap 
pened  to  think  of  a  young  fellow  from  Boston,  here 
for  his  health — same  as  I,  I  guess.  He's  a  M.D.  all 
right — laid  up  for  repairs,  as  you  might  say.  He's 
boarding  at  the  Fred  Trenholm's.  A  wink's  as  good 
as  a  nod  to  a  blind  horse,  and  off  I  went  to  Milby's 
Corners.  At  first,  Dr.  Ballard — that's  his  name — 
said  he  didn't  know  about  coming.  But,  after  a  bit, 
he  decided  he  would.  He's  a  fine,  outstepping  young 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  27 

gentleman,  as  ever  you  saw.  You'd  never  think  his 
lung  had  a  spot  in  it,  more's  the  pity." 

"  Neither  would  you  think  yours  has,"  Martha 
rejoined  simply. 

Sam  searched  her  face  for  a  moment.  "  Say, 
you're  not  worrying  about  me,  are  you,  mother?  "  he 
put  to  her  gently. 

Mrs.  Slawson  turned  to  fill  her  scrubbing  pail  with 
hot  water  from  one  of  the  kettles  on  the  stove. 

"  Worryin'  about  you?  Sure  I'm  not.  What'd 
I  be  worryin'  about  you  for?  You're  chesty 
enough,  ain't  you,  goodness  knows.  An'  your  cough 
has  almost  went.  /  like  sleepin'  outdoors  nights. 
The  wide,  wide  world  ain't  too  big  a  bedroom  for 
me.  An'  this  air  certaintly  is  more  healthy  for  the 
childern,  than  down  home — I  should  say,  New 
York." 

"  Only — you  kind  of  miss  the  old  town,  eh, 
mother?" 

Martha  scrubbed  away  in  silence  for  a  moment. 
'  Well,  not  as  you  might  say  miss.  Certaintly  not. 
But  I  guess  I'd  find  it  hard  work  to  live  in  any  place 
else,  so  long  as  I  lived  in  New  York  (havin'  been 
born  there),  an',  that  bein'  the  case,  a  body  thinks 
back  to  it  oncet  in  a  while — which,  of  course, 
thinkin'  is  by  no  means  missin'." 

Sam  considered.  "  How'd  you  like  to  take  a  day 
off,  and  go  down  with  me,  after  Mr.  Ronald  gets 
back?  There's  some  things  he  wants  me  to  see  about, 
I'll  have  to  look  into  myself  in  the  city,  and  you 
might  as  well  come  along.  We'll  leave  the  chil- 


28  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

dren  with  Ma,  and  just  go  off  on  a  spree — us  two." 

Martha  sat  back  on  her  heels,  and  looked  up  at 
her  husband  out  of  a  face  that  glowed. 

"  Say,  Sam,  could  we?  Somehow,  it  don't  seem  as 
if  we  could.  We  two  never  been  alone  any  time, 
since  we  begun  keepin'  comp'ny.  Firstoff,  there  was 
Gilroy!  He  wouldn't  believe  I  perferred  you  to 
him,  till  the  marriage-lines  was  ackchelly  read  over 
our  heads.  He  was  always  hangin'  'round.  Then, 
there  was  Ma,  an'  then  come  the  childern.  So,  take 
it  all  in  all,  we  certaintly  been,  what  Mrs.  Sherman  'd 
call,  '  carefully  chaperoned.'  Are  you  sure  it'd  be 
proper,  the  two  of  us  goin'  off  alone,  like  that?  " 

Sam  grinned. 

"  Let's  us  go,"  said  Martha.  "  It'll  be  like  the 
weddin'-tour  we  didn't  have,  when  we  was  married." 

Again  Sam  smiled.  "  Sure  we'll  go.  You  fairly 
earned  a  day  off,  mother.  All  these  sixteen  years, 
working  like  Sam  Hill,  and  never  a  grouch  out  of 
you.  Yes,  we'll  go — and,  I  tell  you  what's  more, 
we'll  spend  some.  We'll  just  let  go  for  once,  and 
spend  some,  on  something  we  don't  have  to.  I 
haven't  made  out  to  do  as  well  by  you  as  Peter  Gil 
roy  would,  Martha.  He  used  to  say,  if  you'd  marry 
him,  he'd  put  velvet  under  your  feet.  It's  been  more 
than  I  could  do,  sometimes,  to  put  good  shoe- 
leather." 

"  Well,  I  never  been  Little  Barefoot,  yet,  have  I?  " 
inquired  Martha  blandly. 

Sam  shook  his  head.  "  Since  we  been  up  here,  we 
made  out  to  save  a  bit  and,  by  this  and  by  that,  we 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  29 

got  more  coming  to  us.  We  never  could  seem  to  fix 
things,  before,  so's  we  could  lay  by.  Couldn't  square 
the  bills,  and  save,  but— 

"  It's  a  kinda  stunt  to  square  your  bills,  an'  lay 
by  when,  every  week,  nothin's  comin'  in." 

"  Sure,"  said  Sam. 

Martha  meditated  in  silence  for  a  moment.  "  If 
Cora  knew  what's  goin'  on  inside  me  this  minute, 
it'd  be  my  finish  in  the  bossin'  business,  so  far  as 
she's  concerned.  She's  almost  got  to  the  place,  now, 
where  she  feels  she  could  give  Moses  points  on  the 
Fifth  Commandment.  She's  pretty  near  caught  on 
to  the  little  game  that  parents  is  a  grand  bluff,  an' 
you're  wastin'  time  to  bother  with  their  figaries. 
But  she'd  do  it  sure,  if  she  knew  how  I  feel  at 
present — just  as  much  of  a  silly  kid  as  her." 

Sam's  satisfaction  broadened.  "  Good  work !  " 
said  he. 

"  An'  talkin'  o'  work,"  his  wife  took  him  up 
quickly,  in  an  altered  tone,  "  we  better  get  busy  on 
ours,  or  we  won't  be  done  this  side  o'  mornin'.  You 
get  a  move  on,  Sammy,  an'  bring  in  a  good  stock  o' 
wood,  out  o'  the  shed  there.  An'  when  you  got 
that  done,  we'll  talk  about  coal  from  the  cella." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  old  lady  hiring  her 
own  help?"  inquired  Sam  practically.  "She's  got 
money  to  burn,  hasn't  she?  " 

"  Sure.  But,  she  don't  burn  it.  It's  to  keep  the 
young  lady  from  a  wintry  chill,  I'm  lendin'  a  hand. 
An'  if  it  comes  to  that,  a  body  as  close  as  ol'  lady 
Crewe,  you'd  have  to  feel  sorry  for  her,  on  her  own 


30  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

account.  She  must  be  cold  comfort  to  herself,  with 
a  heart  like  that  inside  her.  Them  kind,  that's  so 
wrapped  up  in  their  money,  some  part  of'm's  bound 
to  go  bare.  A  thing  like  money  won't  reach  all  the 
way  'round  a  human  creature,  not  by  a  long  sight, 
an'  you  can't  make  it.  Them  kind  needs  help  in 
their  nakedness,  as  much,  an'  more,  than  the  rest  of 
us." 

Sam  making  no  attempt  to  dispute  it,  the  two 
worked  on  in  silence,  until  they  were  interrupted  by 
the  abrupt  opening  of  the  door. 

"Mrs.  Slawson!" 

Martha  raised  herself  slowly  from  her  kneeling 
posture,  at  sound  of  Katherine  Crewe's  cry  of  appeal. 

"  The  ol'  lady— she  ain't— worse?  " 

"  Not  worse,  but — unmanageable.  She  won't  let 
Dr.  Ballard  go  near  her.  We  can't  do  a  thing  with 
her.  Won't  you,  please,  come  up  and  try  what  you 
can  do.  You  made  her  mind  about  the  bath,  you 
know." 

Martha  rinsed  off  her  soapy  wrists  with  soapier 
hands  in  a  gesture,  as  of  one  preparing  for  the  fray. 

"  Now,  what  do  you  think  o'  that!  "  she  observed 
calmly.  "  The  size  of  her!  No  bigger  than  a  min 
ute,  an'  gettin'  the  best  of  a  able-bodied  pair,  like 
you  an'  that  fine-appearin'  young  gen'lman  up 
stairs.  Don't  it  beat  all?  " 

Katherine  did  not  stop  long  enough  to  admit  that 
it  did,  but  hurried  on  ahead,  leaving  Mrs.  Slawson 
to  follow  closely  in  the  rear,  pausing  outside  the 
sick-chamber  door,  where  the  doctor  stood  like  a  sen- 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  31 

tinel  on  guard.  Martha  passed  them  both  without 
a  word,  entered  the  room,  and  made  directly  for  the 
bed.  She  slid  a  gentle  arm  beneath  the  narrow  old 
shoulders,  drew  out  the  pillow,  and  replaced  it, 
shaken  into  more  comfortable  shape. 

"  There !  That's  a  whole  lot  better,  ain't  it?  "  she 
inquired  amiably. 

No  answer.  The  old  woman  glared  up  at  her 
hostilely,  but  it  was  noticeable  that  the  worst  fire 
had  been  drawn  from  the  angry  eyes. 

Martha  picked  a  thread  from  the  carpet,  and, 
winding  it  neatly  about  her  forefinger,  put  the  tiny 
coil  into  her  apron  pocket.  Presently  she  plunged 
an  exploring  hand  beneath  the  bed-covering. 

"  Say,  them  hot-water  bags  ain't  been  a  mite  o' 
good  to  you.  Your  feet's  like  two  lumps  o'  ice.  They 
extend  clear  up  to  your  knees.  Did  the  doctor  know, 
before  he  went,  you  had  cold  feet  like  that?" 

No  answer. 

"  He  can't  be  much  of  a  doctor,  an'  no  mistake, 
to  go  off,  an'  leave  a  patient  with  such  a  chill  on 
'er,  so  even  arthurficial  heat  couldn't  get  in  its  fine 
work.  I'm  surprised !  My  husband  was  the  one 
brought'm  here,  I  must  confess.  He  couldn't  do  no 
better,  I  guess.  Dr.  Driggs  wasn't  home,  an'  poor 
Sam  took  what  he  could  get.  When  nothin's  left, 
the  king  can't  choose.  But  wouldn't  you  think  any 
fella  that  called  himself  a  doctor  would  know 
enough  not  to  leave  a  lady,  so  the  ones  about  her 
wouldn't  know  how  to  handle  her  case,  an'  she'd  get 
worse  by  the  minute,  so  to  speak,  for  want  of  a 


32  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

stitch  in  time,  that'd  save  her  nine — meanin'  doctors 
from  the  city,  per'aps,  an'  trained  nurses,  night  an' 
day,  so  the  expense  alone  would  kill  her,  not  to 
mention  other  complercations.  /  call  it  a  shame !  " 

It  was  not  impossible  for  a  shrewd  observer  to 
follow  the  mental  processes  of  the  active  old  brain, 
for  they  were  clearly  enough  revealed  in  the  pas 
sionate,  too-expressive  eyes. 

Mrs.  Slawson,  appearing  to  notice  nothing,  bided 
her  time,  while,  little  by  little,  her  "  oP  lady  "  be 
trayed  herself,  in  all  her  mean  guises  of  misanthropic 
distrust,  growing  self-doubt,  and,  last — overwhelm 
ing  all — susceptibility  to  the  suggestion  of  fear,  re 
sponse  to  the  stimulus  of — money. 

"  Call— that— man !  " 

The  words  were  rapped  out  with  the  brevity  and 
precision  of  a  military  command. 

"Eh?"  said  Martha,  appearing  to  rouse  from  a 
spell  of  complete  inattention. 

"Call— that— doctor!" 

Mrs.  Slawson  moved  her  massive  frame  slowly  in 
the  direction  of  the  door. 

"  Miss  Katherine !  Miss  Katherine !  "  she  shouted 
past  the  two  silent  figures,  just  outside  the  threshold, 
"  Say,  Miss  Katherine!  Are  you  downstairs?  Yes? 
The  doctor  gone  yet?  Say,  hurry!  Get  Sam  to  go 
after'm,  an'  see  can  he  call'm  back!  Your  gran'ma 
wants'm !  " 


CHAPTER  III 

ATHERINE  CREWE  awoke  next  morning  to 
find  Mrs.  Slawson  standing  by  her  bedside,  bear 
ing  a  breakfast  tray. 

"  It's  earlier  than  I'd  'a'  chose  to  disturb  you," 
Martha  explained  apologetically,  "  but  I  gotta  go 
home  an'  feed  my  fam'ly,  an'  see  the  raft  o'  them 
gets  a  good  start  for  the  day." 

"  But  you  haven't  had  any  rest!  You  made  me 
go  to  bed,  but  you  must  have  sat  up  all  night."  The 
girl  spoke  with  compunction,  looking  regretfully  at 
Mrs.  Slawson's  heavy  eyes. 

"  Me?  Now,  don't  you  worry  your  head  about 
me,"  Martha  returned,  as  she  placed  the  tray  in  a 
convenient  position,  and  arranged  the  pillows  back 
of  Miss  Crewe,  so  they  gave  her  comfortable  sup 
port.  "  I  got  along  all  right.  An'  your  gran'ma 
slep'  fine.  I  went  parolin'  'round,  every  oncet  in  a 
while,  to  see  if  she'd  need  anythin',  an'  each  time 
she  was  breathin'  as  peaceful  as  a  baby.  You'll  think 
I'm  awful,  but  whenever  I  remember  las'  night,  an' 
me  carryin'  things  with  a  high  hand  against  her  will, 
I  almost  kill  myself  laughin'.  Poor  ol'  lady!  the 
way  she  looked  at  me !  It  was  like  a  song  they 
learn  the  childern  to  sing,  down  home — I  should  say 
New  York,  in  the  high  school  Cora  went  to. 

33 


34  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  *  Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes ,'  what 
ever  that  means.  With  your  gran'ma  it  was,  Cuss  at 
me  only  with  thine  eyes.  She  didn't  open  her  head 
to  say  a  word,  but  what  she  meant  was  plain  as 
preachin' — only  not  quite  so  pious." 

Miss  Crewe  bit  her  lip  to  keep  from  smiling. 
"  You've  been  very  kind  to  us,  Mrs.  Slawson.  I 
don't  know  how  to  thank  you,"  she  said. 

When  Martha  had  gone  the  girl  rose,  hurriedly 
bathed  and  dressed,  then  made  her  way  to  her  grand 
mother.  She  did  not  know  much  about  nursing,  but 
she  knew  she  must  not  carry  a  long  face  into  a  sick 
room,  and  the  question  was,  how  to  help  it.  Her 
heart  was  very  heavy.  Ever  since  the  attack  yester 
day  afternoon,  her  mind  had  been  going  over  and 
over  what  this  sickness  was  bound  to  entail.  Things 
had  been  hard  enough  before,  but  she  saw  how  this 
might  add  intolerable  burdens,  and,  in  the  face  of  it, 
she  must  look  cheerful,  give  no  sign  of  the  discour 
agement  she  felt. 

That  was  the  way  it  was  with  everything  in  her 
life,  she  brooded.  She  was  continually  under  some 
sort  of  crushing  necessity  to  hold  in,  and  hold  back. 
She  had  never  been  free,  as  most  girls  of  her  age 
are,  and  there  seemed  no  prospect  that  she  ever 
would  be.  On  the  contrary,  there  was  every  likeli 
hood  she  would  be  more  and  more  confined  and  re 
stricted,  as  the  years  went  on,  if,  as  the  doctor  had 
said,  this  was  but  the  beginning  of  the  end.  The 
future  looked  desperately  black.  As  for  the  past, 
she  could  remember  a  time,  away  back,  when  she 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  35 

was  a  little  girl,  when  things  had  been  very 
different. 

A  child's  mind  does  not  measure  and  weigh  ac 
cording  to  scale,  and  Katherine  could  not  fix  the 
precise  degree  of  her  mother's  grace,  her  father's 
dashing  beauty,  the  luxury  of  the  home  in  which 
they,  all  three,  lived.  But  she  had  more  than  her 
memory  to  rely  upon.  There  were  likenesses,  there 
were  relics,  there  were  the  continual  jibes  of  her 
grandmother  through  recent  years,  to  the  effect  that 
she  "  had  been  brought  up  like  a  fool;  it  was  time 
she  learned  better." 

At  her  mother's  death,  her  father  had  carried  her 
to  his  parents'  home.  Looking  back,  she  had  no 
sense  of  having  suffered  surprise  or  disappointment 
by  the  change.  The  new  home  must  have  compared 
favorably  with  the  old.  She  could  remember  her 
grandfather's  table — a  most  formidable  function,  to 
which  she  was  conducted,  at  dessert,  by  a  nervous 
nurse,  "  afraid  of  her  life  there'll  be  a  to-do 
if  you  don't  look  right,  an'  hold  up  your  head, 
an'  speak  out  when  you're  spoken  to,  Miss  Kath'- 
rine." 

Her  father's  sudden  death  had  made  no  change  in 
outward  conditions.  It  was  when  her  grandfather 
passed  away  that  there  was  a  difference.  Then,  sud 
denly,  she  seemed  to  wake  one  morning  to  a  realiza 
tion  of  lack.  She  could  not  be  at  all  certain  her  im 
pression  was  correct.  The  alteration  might  have 
been  so  gradual,  she  had  failed  to  notice  it,  and  it 
was  her  consciousness  of  the  fact,  and  not  the  fact 


36  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

itself,  that  came  upon  her  abruptly.  The  way 
did  not  matter,  the  fact  did.  It  all  summed 
itself  up  to  this,  that  the  grudging  hand  was  cer 
tainly  not  her  grandfather's,  much  less  her  father's. 
They  had  been  open-handed  to  a  fault.  The  one 
who  stinted,  of  whom  the  country-people  'round 
about  said:  "  She'll  pinch  a  penny  till  the  eagle 
screams,"  was — 

"  Katherine !  " 

The  girl  started  guiltily  at  the  sound  of  the  thick, 
labored  syllables. 

'  Yes,  grandmother."     She  was  at  the  bed's  side 
in  a  moment. 

'  That  doctor —          He's  not  to  come  again,  un 
derstand?    Call  Driggs." 

"  Yes,  grandmother.  But  perhaps  Dr.  Driggs  will 
refuse  to  come.  You  found  fault  with  his  bill  last 
time,  you  know,  and  he  didn't  like  it  very  well." 

"  Tush !  He's  forgotten  that  by  this  time. 
But " 

"Well?" 

"  If  he  should  refuse,  and  I  have  to  have — the 
other,  understand,  you're  not  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  him.    I  forbid  it !  " 
'  Yes,  grandmother." 

"  Ballard !  I  know  the  tribe.  Leave  him  alone, 
and  see  he  leaves  you  alone." 

"  Please  don't  excite  yourself,  grandmother.  I'm 
sure  the  doctor  wouldn't  want  you  to." 

"  Where's  that  woman?  " 

"  You  mean  Mrs.  Slawson?    Gone  home.    She  has 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  37 

a  family  to  see  to.  She  told  you,  didn't  she,  she's  the 
wife  of  Mr.  Ronald's  new  superintendent?  " 

"  How  much'll  she  charge?  " 

"  Us,  you  mean  ?  For  what  she  did  last  night,  and 
this  morning?  " 

"  Uh-huh." 

"  Nothing,  grandmother." 

"  Nonsense !  Compel  her  to  set  price.  If  she 
won't,  it's  because  she  hopes  you'll  pay  more  than's 
the  custom.  I  know  the  trick.  Don't  be  caught. 
Pay  her  regular  price,  and  say  she  mustn't 
come,  'less  we  send.  Won't  pay,  when  we  don't 
send." 

Katherine  felt  herself  flushing  furiously  from  neck 
to  forehead.  "  I  wouldn't  dare  offer  Mrs.  Slawson 
money,  grandmother.  I  can't  imagine  what  she'd  do, 
if  I  did.  She  came  to  help  us  out  of  pure  friendli 
ness.  She  did  more  than  we  could  ever  pay  her  for. 
She's  put  me  under  deep  obligation." 

"Pooh!  Obligation!  One  in  that  class!  When 
you've  paid  her,  you've  paid  her." 

Katherine  turned  her  face  away.  "  Let's  not  dis 
cuss  it,  grandmother.  You  oughtn't  to  talk  much, 
just  yet.  Let's  see !  First,  I'll  get  a  basin  and  warm 
water,  and  give  you  a  lovely  bath,  and  afterwards, 
you  can  have  your  breakfast.  I'll  go  down  myself 
and  prepare  it,  as  soon  as " 

Madam  Crewe  gave  vent  to  a  sound  Katherine 
was  painfully  familiar  with — something  between  a 
sneer,  a  snort,  and  a  groan  of  exasperation. 

"  How  many  lovely  baths  d'you  calculate  I  can 


38  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

stand  in  twelve  hours?  One  last  night.  Another  five 
A.M.  and,  now,  you  want  to  give  me  a  third !  " 

"Mrs.  Slawson  bathed  you  before  she  went?" 
Katherine  demanded  incredulously. 

"  Yes,  and  what's  more,  gave  me  breakfast.  Good 
breakfast !  Better  than  you  can  p'pare." 

"  She  couldn't  have  slept  a  wink  all  night,"  the 
girl  mused  self-reproachfully. 

Madam  Crewe  made  no  rejoinder.  Apparently, 
she  did  not  consider  it  necessary  for  one  in  Mrs. 
Slawson's  class  to  sleep  a  wink  all  night. 

Katherine  turned  away,  pretending  to  busy  herself 
with  setting  the  room  in  order.  In  reality,  she  was 
very  differently  employed.  Her  stern  young  mind 
had  constituted  itself  court,  counsel,  and  jury,  to  sit 
in  judgment  upon  her  grandmother,  and,  according 
to  the  findings,  convict  her  without  privilege  of  ap 
peal.  She  could  see  nothing  that  was  not  contempti 
ble  in  the  old  woman's  mode  of  living,  her  view  of 
life.  If  she  were  poor,  it  would  be  different.  There 
might  be  some  excuse  then,  for  this  paltry  measuring 
of  everything  by  the  standard  of  a  copper  cent.  But, 
her  grandmother  had  plenty,  and  more  than  plenty. 
If  she  stinted,  it  was  merely  to  add  more  to  an  al 
ready  ample  fortune.  And,  meanwhile,  youth,  hope, 
dreams,  all  were  vanishing.  The  best  of  life  was 
being  wilfully  sacrificed  to  a  mean  whim.  She  knew 
the  people  'round  about,  the  "  natives,"  turned  up 
their  noses  at  "  ol'  lady  Crewe,"  and  pitied  her, 
Katherine,  for  being  the  granddaughter  of  a  "  tight 
wad."  It  made  her  shrink  from  meeting  the  com- 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  39 

monest  acquaintance,  when  she  considered  how 
odious  her  position  was,  and  how  well  every  one 
knew  it. 

The  doctor  came  early,  while  she  was  still  smarting 
with  a  sense  of  her  wrongs. 

"  I've  brought  a  battery,"  he  explained,  indicating 
the  instrument  Sam  Slawson  was  assisting  him  to  un 
earth  from  the  bowels  of  the  runabout.  "  It's  not 
my  own.  Dr.  Driggs  kindly  lent  it.  I  had  a  chat 
with  him  over  the  'phone  last  night,  after  I  got  home, 
and  he  agrees  with  me  that  electricity  will  be 

"  If  Dr.  Driggs  is  back,  why  didn't  he  come  him 
self?  "  Katherine  interrupted,  so  sensitively  on  edge 
that  the  most  innocent  suggestion  jarred. 

The  young  man  before  her  looked  blank  for  a  mo 
ment.  Then  a  tolerant  smile  stole  into  his  fine,  whole 
some  face. 

"  Precisely  the  question  I  put  to  him.  But,  he 
said  he'd  thank  me  kindly  if  I'd  go  on  with  the 
case." 

Katherine  winced.  She  knew  why  Dr.  Driggs  was 
not  keen  on  coming  to  Crewesmere. 

Dr.  Ballard  noticed  the  painful  twitching  of  her 
brows,  and  instantly  regretted  his  reply.  To  mend 
matters  he  began,  at  once,  to  explain  why  he  was 
obliged  to  borrow  of  a  fellow-practitioner,  and  to 
call  upon  Sam  Slawson  to  be  his  charioteer. 

'  You  see,  I'm  not  here  in  the  village  in  my  of 
ficial  capacity.  I  only  came  for — well,  on  a  sort  of 
venture.  But  I  like  it,  and  I've  sent  for  my — I 
mean,  I've  sent  for  a  machine  to  get  about  in,  by 


40  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

myself.  I  was  feeling  a  bit  seedy.  I'm  here  for 
repairs.  I  belong  in  Boston — my  office  is  there,  and 
my  heavy  artillery's  in  it.  But  if  electric  treatment 
seems  to  agree  with  Madam  Crewe,  I'll  send,  and 
have  my  portable  battery  shipped  on  with  the  motor. 
It's  quite  at  her  service,  as  /  am.  It's  rather  more 
modern  than  this,  and — more — effective." 

As  Sam  Slawson  remarked  to  his  wife  later,  he 
was  surprised  at  the  manner  in  which  Miss  Crewe 
received  the  doctor's  friendly  advance. 

"  She  gave  him  a  look,  like  he'd  trod  on  her  toes, 
and  hurt  her  bad,  besides  taking  the  shine  off  her 
patent  leather." 

Martha  smiled.  "  Anybody'd  know  you'd  been 
a  strap-hanger,  Sam  Slawson.  You  give  yourself 
dead  away." 

"  Well,  she  gave  him  the  look,  and  said  she : 
*  Thanks,  but  please  don't  send.  My  grandmother 
is  much  improved.  She  may  not  require  the  services 
of  any  doctor,  very  long.'  ' 

Mrs.  Slawson  nodded.  "  She's  sore  on  the  subjec' 
of  her  gran'ma.  She  knows  her  peculiar-rarities,  an' 
she  knows  she's  got  to  stand  by  the  ol'  lady,  but  it 
kinda  gives  her  a  turn,  every  time  she  thinks  any 
body's  noticin'  her  doin'  it.  If  Dr.  Ballard  wasn't 
such  a  great  innercent  of  a  fella,  he  wouldn't  'a' 
give  it  away  that  Dr.  Driggs  is  on  to  the  little 
madam,  and  just  as  lief  dodge  her,  if  convenient.  A 
party  with  more  tack  to'm  than  Dr.  Ballard  would 
'a'  kep'  that  dark.  But  there's  where  you  can't  have 
everything  at  oncet,  in  human  bein's.  If  a  fella's  got 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  41 

a  lotta  tack,  an'  the  kind  o'  light  fantastic  toe  that, 
every  time  he  opens  his  mouth,  he  don't  put  his 
foot  into  it,  he's  more  than  like  to  be  the  kind  that 
thinks  twicet  before  he  speaks,  which,  it  may  be  wise, 
but  ain't  as  hearty,  an'  uncalkerlatin'  as  I'd  like  in 
a  husband.  On  the  other  hand,  a  fella  that  speaks, 
without  stoppin'  to  count  the  costs,  why,  it's  ten  to 
one,  a  woman'll  have  to  pay  'em,  in  the  end,  but 
anyhow  she'll  have  the  comfort  o'  knowin'  his  heart's 
in  the  right  place,  which,  it  ain't  forever  takin'  the 
elevator  up  to  the  top  floor,  to  consult  with  his  brains. 
I'm  sorry  them  two  young  things  got  in  wrong  as 
regards  each  other.  But  it  won't  stop  the  course  o' 
human  events,  so  far  as  they're  concerned,  even  if  it 
does  delay  it  some.  I'm  not  a  bit  worried." 

Sam  paused  in  the  act  of  pulling  off  a  boot. 

"  Say,  Martha,  you  don't  mean  you're  at  it 
again?  " 

"'At  it'!  Me?  No!  What  I  mean  is,  Nature's 
bound  to  get  in  her  fine  work,  no  matter  what  kinda 
mater'al's  handed  out  to  her.  You  remember  Miss 
Claire  an'  Lord  Ronald?  They  started  in  compler- 
catin'  the  pattren,  as  hard  as  they  could,  but  'twas 
no  use.  They  couldn't  get  the  best  o'  Nature,  an'  the 
consequence  is,  we're  lookin'  for  'em  home  from 
their  weddin'  tour  any  time  now,  an'  if  we  don't  get 
busy,  the  decorations  won't  be  ready  for  my  celebra 
tion  proceedin's." 

The  morning  of  the  great  day  on  which  the  Ron 
alds  were  expected  to  arrive,  Martha  was  astir  at 
sunrise,  summoning  her  brood  with  the  call:  "  Miss 


42  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

Claire's  comin'  home  !    Miss  Claire's  comin'  home !  " 

"  I'd  call  her  Missis,  considering,"  suggested  Sam, 
yawning  as  he  tucked  his  pillow  more  comfortably 
beneath  his  rough  cheek. 

"  All  right,  call  her  it,  if  it's  a  comfort  to  you. 
Only  get  a  move  on,"  his  wife  replied,  plucking  the 
pillow  unceremoniously  out  from  under,  giving  it  a 
mighty  shake,  and  setting  it  across  the  sleeping-porch 
rail  to  air. 

'  You  can  take  it  from  me,  my  hands  is  full  this 
day.  I've  no  time  to  parley,  fussin'  over  my  articles 
of  speech.  Besides,  Miss  Claire  knows  me  an'  my 
ways.  If  I  was  any  diff'rent  from  what  she's  used 
to,  she'd  be  disappointed." 

"  I  thought  Mrs.  Peckett  was  making  you  over. 
To  say  nothing  of  Cora,  and  Ma.  Perhaps  Mrs. 
Ronald  will  take  a  hand  at  it,  too.  You  never  can 
tell." 

'  True  for  you,  you  never  can,"  Martha  ad 
mitted.  "  Who'd  'a'  thought,  now,  ol'  lady  Crewe 
would  ever  be  troublin'  her  head  about  me,  an'  yet 
one  o'  the  first  things  she  said,  when  she  got  her 
power  back,  an'  could  pronunciate  clearly,  was— 
'  You'd  oughta  keep  a  cow ! '  Knowin'  the  risks  run 
by  those  that  does,  from  the  effects  o'  hoofs  an' 
horns,  an'  simular  attachments,  I  mighta  thought  she 
wanted  to  see  my  finish,  because  o'  the  way  I  lit  in, 
an*  give  her  a  rub-down  against  her  will,  the  night 
she  was  took  sick.  But  she  didn't.  She  don't  bear 
no  ill  will.  It  was  just  she  thought  keepin'  a  cow 
would  be  cheaper  for  our  fam'ly,  than  keepin'  the 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  43 

milkman.  She  wants  to  turn  me  into  a  farmer,  an' 
who  knows  !  You  never  can  tell,  as  you  say.  That's 
what  I  may  turn  into  before  I'm  done.  But  what 
I'm  occupied  with  at  the  present  moment  is — did  you 
get  that  la'nch  fixed  up  good  last  night,  like  I  told 
you  to?  As  soon  as  the  breakfast  dishes  is  washed, 
I  wanta  take  the  childern,  an'  go  acrost  the  lake  to 
get  laurel  for  my  decorations." 

Sam  paused  in  the  act  of  shaving,  to  turn  his  lath 
ered  cheek  toward  her. 

''  The  launch  is  O.  K.,  but  I'm  uneasy  every  time 
you  take  her  out  on  the  water  alone,  mother.  I'm 
not  sure  you  understand  the  motor.  And  if  a  squall 
blew  up  sudden " 

"  Now,  don't  you  worry  your  head  over  me,  that's 
a  good  fella.  I  understand  that  la'nch,  an'  the  auta, 
as  good  as  if  all  three  of  us  hada  been  born  an' 
brought  up  by  the  same  mother.  The  things  I  can't 
seem  to  get  a  line  on  is  animals.  Hens,  an'  cows, 
an'  so  forth.  They  take  my  time !  O'  course,  to  look 
at  'em,  you'd  know  hens  ain't  very  brainy. — Look 
at  the  way  they  behave  in  front  o'  autas,  or  any- 
thin'  drivin'  up !  They're  as  undecided  as  a  woman 
at  a  bargain-counter,  thinkin'  will  she  buy  a  remlet 
o'  baby-blue  ribbon,  or  go  to  Huyler's  an'  get  a 
chocolate  ice-cream  soda.  They're  hippin'  an'  hawin', 
till  it'd  be  a  pleasure  to  run  'em  down.  Cows  ain't 
got  that  trick,  but  they're  queer  in  their  own  way, 
an'  the  both  o'  them  is  too,  what  Mrs.  Sherman  calls, 
temper-mental  to  suit  me.  Now,  who'd  'a'  thought 
all  them  chicks  woulda  died  on  me,  just  because  they 


44  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

got  damped  down  some,  that  cold,  wet  spell  we  had 
along  in  March?  If  they'd  'a'  told  me  they  wanted 
to  come  in  outa  the  wet,  I'd  'a'  fetched  'em  indoors, 
or  I'd  'a'  went  out  an'  held  their  hands.  Anythin' 
to  oblige.  But  not  on  your  life!  They  was  mum 
as  oysters.  They  just  up  an'  died  on  me,  without  so 
much  as  a  beg  to  be  excused — the  whole  bloomin'  lot 
o'  them.  The  Lord  tempers  the  cold  to  the  shorn 
lamb,  but  I  notice  it  aint  reggerlated  much  of  any 
in  the  case  o'  chickens.  An'  talkin'  o'  chickens,  I 
wonda  if  that  same  Sammy  done  what  I  told'm  an' 
whitewashed  the  henhouse  thora  inside.  Mrs. 
Peckett  says  you  gotta  do  it  every  oncet  in  a 
while,  to  keep  the  vermin  down.  The  quicklime 
kills  'em." 

Breakfast  well  under  way,  Mrs.  Slawson  went  out 
on  a  tour  of  inspection.  Evidently  what  she  found 
did  not  satisfy  her,  for,  when  the  family  had  had  its 
meal,  and  was  about  to  rise  and  disperse,  she  held 
Sammy  back  with  a  detaining  hand. 

"  Say,  young  fella,  how  about  that  henhouse  you 
was  to  fresco  with  whitewash  yesterday?  " 

"  I  did  it,  mother." 

"  Well,  you  let  the  brush  kinda  lick  down  the 
walls,  but  what  I  call  a  thora  coat  you  did  not  give 
it !  Now,  I  like  my  jobs  done  thora.  There's  a  good 
pail  o'  whitewash  waitin'  for  you  outside,  to  say 
nothin'  o'  the  brush  to  lay  it  on  with.  An',  while 
the  girls  an'  me  goes  over  to  the  other  side  o'  the 
lake  to  get  laurel,  you  get  busy  on  the  inter'or  o'  that 
hen-residence,  my  son.  An'- 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  45 

"  Oh — oh,  mother-r!  "  Sammy's  wail  came  from 
a  stricken  heart. 

It  failed  to  make  the  slightest  impression  appar 
ently. 

"  You  knew  you  was  botchin'  all  the  time,"  Mar 
tha  pulled  him  up  short.  "  After  a  while,  you'll 
get  on  to  it,  that  you  can't  palm  off  careless  work  on 
me — I  know  too  much  about  it." 

"  I  did  what  you  told  me,  mother,"  the  boy  man 
aged  to  bring  out,  between  heavy  sobs. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?" 

"  You  told  me — do  the  inside  o'  the  henhouse,  an' 
I  done  it!  " 

"Yes,  but  how  about  the  roosts?  You  never 
touched  brush  to  the  roosts.  It's  a  pity  if  a  child  o' 
mine's  gotta  be  told  do  every  last  thing,  when  he 
knows  better.  You  can  take  it  from  me,  I  ain't 
bringin'  you  childern  up  to  be  the  kind  o'  household 
pets  servants  is,  nowadays.  I  wanta  learn  you  to 
think  for  yourselves,  sometimes,  an'  do  a  thing  the 
right  way,  because  it's  right  to  do  it  that  way.  Never 
mind  if  anybody  sees  it,  or  not.  Now,  you  listen  to 
me,  since  you're  so  partic'lar :  You  go  into  that  hen 
house,  with  your  pail,  an'  your  brush,  an'  you  white 
wash  down  every  last  thing  in  it,  roosts  an'  all. 
Don't  you  leave  a  thing  go  free.  Do  you  under 
stand  me?  " 

Sammy's  pitiful  face  moved  his  father  to  raise  a 
voice  in  his  behalf. 

"  Say,  mother,  Sammy  knows  he's  been  a  bad  boy 
an'  he's  got  to  take  his  punishment.  He's  got  to  do 


46  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

the  henhouse  over.  There's  no  doubt  about  that. 
But  suppose  he  passes  his  word  of  honor  to  you,  as 
man  to  man,  that  he'll  do  it  thorough  next  time, 
will  you  be  easy  on  him,  for  this  once,  and  let  him 
go  across  the  lake  with  you  and  his  sisters,  and  do 
the  whitewashing  later?" 

Martha  shook  her  head. 

"  Sorry  I  can't  accommodate  you,  but  when  any- 
thin's  to  do,  there's  no  time  like  the  present.  If 
Sammy  learns  his  lesson  this  trip,  he  won't  have  it  to 
learn  again,  on  another  occasion,  when  p'raps  he'd 
miss  more  than  goin'  acrost  the  lake.  Besides,  he's 
got  some  other  little  trifles  hangin'  over'm,  I  let  him 
off  easy  on,  at  the  time.  We'll  just  settle  up  his  ac 
count  now,  for  them  an'  the  henhouse,  all  together, 
an'  call  it  square." 

There  was  a  terrible  finality  in  his  mother's  words 
and  aspect,  that  dried  Sammy's  tears,  quenched  his 
sobs.  Where  was  the  good  of  struggling?  Sammy 
was  a  small  boy,  but  he  had  sagacity  enough  to  real 
ize  he  was  face  to  face  with  fate.  He  turned  away 
mournfully,  and  disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the 
henhouse. 

Mrs.  Slawson's  severity  fell  from  her,  as  if  it  had 
been  a  mantle. 

"  The  poor  fella,"  she  said  commiseratingly.  "  I'd 
give  a  lot  to  leave'm  go  along.  But  with  childern, 
you  got  to  strike  while  the  iron  is  hot,  or  you'll  be 
forever  warmin'  their  poor  little  hides,  which  con 
stant  naggin'  is  death  to  their  dispositions.  But 
if  I'd  'a'  had  my  choice,  I'd  'a'  selected  a  differnt 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  47 

way  to  punish'm.  For,  firstoff,  I  won't  enjoy  the 
fun,  knowin'  he's  left  behind,  an',  second,  I  really 
need  his  help  with  the  laurel  and  with  the  la'nch. 
But  p'raps  I  need  a  punishment  on  my  own  account, 
for  leavin'm  grow  to  this  age  without  knowin'  he 
can't  string  his  mother.  If  I  do,  you  can  take  it 
from  me,  /  got  it." 


TV/TISS  CLAIRE'S  entry  into  her  new  domain  was 
•*•*•*•  triumphal. 

As  the  motor  approached  the  lodge-gate,  she 
plucked  impulsively  at  her  husband's  sleeve. 

"Look,  Frank,  look!  See!  An  arch  of  pink 
laurel!  Flags!  And — and — what's  this?" 

A  quartette  of  children's  voices  singing  brought 
the  motor  to  a  halt  on  the  hither  side  of  a  wonderful, 
lettered  strip,  stretched,  like  an  unrolled  scroll,  to 
span  the  driveway,  from  the  tips  of  two  lofty  up 
rights.  Mr.  Ronald  bent  forward  attentively.  Im 
mediately  his  firm  jaw  began  to  twitch,  and,  as  he 
spoke,  his  lowered  voice  betrayed  a  treacherous 
tremolo. 

"  They're  singing  Hail  to  the  Chief.  But  its  own 
mother  wouldn't  know  it." 

Claire  threw  him  a  reproachful  glance,  as,  to  the 
consternation  of  the  new  footman,  she  flung  open  the 
door  of  the  car  herself,  alighted  unaided,  and  im 
petuously  clung  about  Martha  Slawson's  neck. 

"Oh,  Martha,  Martha!  "  she  cried. 

There  were  tears  of  joy  in  Martha's  eyes. 

"  God  bless  you,  Miss  Claire,  ma'am!  God  bless 
you,  dear." 

"  I  say,  Martha,  which  of  us  are  you  hailing? 

48 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  49 

Which  of  us  is  Chief?  "  broke  in  Mr.  Ronald  lightly, 
nodding  a  salutation  toward  Sam,  Ma,  and  the  chil 
dren  drawn  up  by  the  driveway  in  martial  array. 

Martha  laughed.  "  Between  youse  be  it,  sir. 
Time'll  tell.  Sam  didn't  want  me  put  it  up,  but  I 
says  to  him,  you  both  started  in  with  a  fair  field,  an' 
no  favor,  an'  let  the  best  man  win.  Guessin'  which 
of  you'll  come  out  ahead,  maybe'll  relieve  the  monot- 
erny  of  married  life  for  you  some." 

If  Sam  Slawson  had  been  a  boy,  he  could  not 
have  felt  more  eager  to  "  show  the  boss  "  what  he 
had  made  of  the  place  during  his  absence.  While 
the  two  of  them  were  exploring,  the  children  and 
Ma  busy  with  the  treasures  their  fairy  princess  had 
brought  home  to  them  from  the  other  side  of  the 
world,  Martha  devoted  herself  to  "  mothering " 
Miss  Claire. 

"  My!  To  be  brushin'  your  hair  like  this  takes 
me  back  to  a  Hunderd-an'-sixteenth  Street,  an'  no 
mistake !  " 

Mrs.  Ronald's  eyes,  peering  through  her  bright 
veil,  met  Mrs.  Slawson's  in  the  mirror. 

"  Tell  me,  Martha,  you  miss  the  city  sometimes, 
don't  you?  Would  you  like  to  go  back?  " 

Martha's  reply  was  prompt.  "  I  am  goin'  back, 
for  a  day  or  two,  with  Sam,  when  Mr.  Ronald 
sends'm  down  on  business  next  month.  That  is,  I'm 
goin',  if  I  can  raise  the  price  o'  my  ticket.  We're 
goin'  on  a  spree.  Just  us  two,  all  alone  by  our 
selves." 

Mrs.  Ronald  clapped  her  hands.     "Good!"  she 


50 

cried  enthusiastically.  "  But  you  haven't  answered 
my  question.  I'll  put  it  another  way.  Do  you  feel 
quite  contented  up  here?  Does  the  country  suit 
you?" 

This  time  Mrs.  Slawson  paused  to  consider.  "  I 
like  the  country  first-rate,"  she  brought  out  at  last. 
"  I  like  it  first-rate,  notwithstandin'  it  ain'  just  ex- 
ackly  the  kinda  pure  white,  Easter-card  effect  it's 
gener'ly  cracked  up  to  be.  When  you  think  o'  the 
country,  you  naturally  think  o'  daisies,  an'  new-mown 
hay,  an'  meddas,  an'  grass  which  it  don't  have  signs 
all  'round  to  keep  off  of  it,  an'  blue  skies  you  ain't 
gotta  break  your  neck  peekin'  out  o'  the  air-shaft 
ground-floor  winda  to  see.  Well,  true  for  you,  the 
whole  outfit's  here  all  right,  all  right,  but  so's  more 
or  less  o'  human  bein's,  an'  whenever  you  get  human 
bein's  picnicking  'round,  complercations  's  sure  to  set 
in.  Human  bein's,  if  they  ain't  careful,  clutters  up 
the  landscape  dretful.  An'  they  do  it  in  the  country, 
same  as  down  home.  You're  goin'  to  slip  up  on  it 
fierce,  if  you  think  the  city's  got  a  corner  on  all  the 
rottenness  there  is.  There's  a  whole  lot  o'  news  ain't 
fit  to  print  is  happenin'  right  up  here  in  this  inner- 
cent-lookin'  little  village.  You  wouldn't  believe  it, 
unless  you  knew.  There's  parties  bein'  bad,  an'  other 
parties  bein'  good.  Folks  doin'  mean  tricks,  an'  folks 
doin'  the  other  kind.  It's  all  just  about  the  same's 
in  the  city,  when  you  get  right  down  to  it.  Only, 
there  ain't  so  much  of  it.  But  it  makes  me  tired  to 
hear  Mrs.  Peckett  behavin'  as  if  the  country  was  the 
whole  thing,  an'  New  York  wasn't  in  it.  New  York 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  51 

is  bad  in  spots,  but  it's  good  in  spots  too,  an'  don't 
you  forget  it!  " 

Mrs.  Ronald  smiled.  "  You're  a  loyal  soul,  Mar 
tha.  But  you'll  love  the  country  better,  when  you 
know  more  about  the  birds,  and  the  insects,  and  the 
flowers.  I'm  going  to  set  about  directly  teaching 
you.  I'm  going  to  make  a  naturalist  of  you,  do  you 
know  it?" 

Mrs.  Slawson's  smile  was  large,  benign.  "  Cer- 
taintly.  I'd  like  to  be  a  nateralist.  Mrs.  Peckett's 
goin'  to  make  a  New  England  housekeeper  outa  me, 
an'  ol'  lady  Crewe  is  tryin'  to  turn  me  into  a  farmer. 
If  I  get  all  that's  comin'  to  me,  it  looks  as  if  I'd 
be  goin'  some,  before  I  get  through." 

"'Old  lady  Crewe'?" 

'  Why,  don't  you  remember?  That  little  ol'  party 
looks  like  a  china  figga  you'd  get  at  Macy's,  down 
in  the  basement.  They  have'm  leanin'  against  tree- 
stumps,  for  match-boxes,  an'  suchlike.  White  hair, 
an'  dressed  to  beat  the  band,  in  looped-up  silk,  with 
flowers  painted  onto  the  pattren.  Ol'  lady  Crewe  re 
minds  you  of  one  o'  those.  She  was  '  born  a 
Stryker,'  they  tell  me — whatever  that  is — an'  her 
folks  owned  about  all  the  land  in  these  parts  Lord 
Ronald's  folks  didn't,  in  the  ol'  days.  She's  got 
no  end  o'  money,  but Martha  hesitated. 

"  Oh,  I  recollect  now.  She's  the  one  they  say  is 
a  miser." 

"  Now,  I  wouldn't  call  her  that,"  said  Mrs.  Slaw- 
son  slowly.  "  I  kinda  hate  to  clap  a  label  onto  a 
body.  It's  bound  to  stick  to'm,  no  matter  what. 


52  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

It's  like  a  bottle.  Oncet  it's  had  POISON  marked 
on  it,  it's  under  suspicion,  an'  you  wouldn't  make 
free  with  it,  no  matter  how  careful  it's  been  washed. 
Ol'  lady  Crewe  certaintly  is  savin',  that  no  one  can 
deny,  an'  I'm  sorry  for  Miss  Katherine,  but— 

Again  Mrs.  Ronald  let  her  curiosity  escape  in  the 
repetition  of  the  name  Martha  had  just  mentioned. 

"Miss  Katherine?" 

"  Miss  Katherine's  the  ol'  lady's  granddaughter, 
an'  you  can  take  it  from  me,  you  wouldn't  see  a 
han'somer  in  a  day's  travel." 

"  Oh,  Martha,  Martha!  "  cried  Miss  Claire,  pre 
tending  jealousy,  "I've  got  a  rival.  I  see  it!  I 
know  it !  You  don't  like  me  best  any  more." 

Mrs.  Slawson  laughed.  "'Like  you  best'! 
Well,  I  guess  you  won't  have  to  lose  no  sleep  on  that 
account,  Miss  Claire.  But  Miss  Katherine's  cer 
taintly  good-lookin',  I'll  say  that  for  her.  When  I 
come  home  the  next  mornin',  after  seein'  her  firstoff, 
Cora  says  to  me,  'What  did  she  look  like?  was  she 
anything  like  Miss  Claire?'  An'  I  told  her:  '  Miss 
Katherine's  the  han'somest  appearin',  but  Miss 
Claire  is  the  delicatest.  Miss  Claire's  the  most 
refinder-lookin'.  An'  that's  God's  truth.  Miss  Kath 
erine's  tall.  The  sorta  grand,  proud-lookin',  I-would- 
n't-call-the-queen-my-cousin  kind.  An'  you—  — ! 
Well,  you'll  know  how  a  body  feels  about  you, 
when  the  blessed  lamb  comes  home  in  August, 
which,  believe  me,  the  news  of  it  is  the  joyfulest 
ever  I  heard  in  my  life.  You'll  know  how  a 
body  feels  about  you,  by  the  way  you  feel  about  it. 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  53 

Like  pertectin'  it,  an'  caressin'  it,  an' — an' — keepin' 
harm  away  from  the  innercent  heart  of  it.  If  you 
don't  believe  me,  ask  Lord  Ronald." 

'"Ask  Lord  Ronald,'  what?" 

Mrs.  Slawson  turned  composedly  to  face  the  mas 
ter  of  the  house,  as  if  his  appearance  in  the  door 
way,  just  at  that  precise  moment,  had  been  "  accord 
ing  to  specifications."  "  I  was  tellin'  Miss  Claire — 
beggin'  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Ronald — about  ol'  lady 
Crewe,  up-the-road-a-ways." 

Mr.  Ronald  disposed  of  his  long  person  in  a  cre 
tonne-covered  lounging  chair. 

"  Do  you  know  her,  Frank?  "  As  Claire  spoke 
she  slipped  into  her  adjoining  dressing-room,  to  ar 
range  her  hair  and  put  on  a  fresh  frock. 

"  Why,  yes — and  no,"  he  replied.  "  Of  course  all 
the  neighborhood  knows  about  Madam  Crewe.  I 
used  to  hear  my  father  talk  about  her.  But  she  is 
rather  a  formidable  little  person.  She  is  not  to  be 
approached  lightly.  I  doubt  if  any  one  knows  her. 
She  was  Idea  Stryker.  An  only  child.  '  Very  beauti 
ful,'  the  governor  said, — '  a  great  match.'  Her  fa 
ther  was  exceedingly  high  and  mighty.  An  English 
younger  son,  with  feudalistic  notions.  Nobody  over 
here  was  good  enough  for  him,  except  my  father, 
with  whom  he  was  uncommonly  friendly.  Stryker 
was  difficult,  a  choleric,  fiery-tongued  individual, 
much  disliked  in  the  state,  though,  my  father  always 
said,  he  meant  well." 

"  Somehow,  I  ain't  no  use  for  folks  that  mean 
well,"  observed  Mrs.  Slawson.  "  That  is,  o'  course, 


54  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

I  don't  mean  I  ain't  no  use  for'm,  but  I  think  they're 
kinda  nuisances.  When  you  have  to  explain  that  a 
fella  means  well,  you  can  take  it  from  me,  he  ain't 
makin'  himself  very  clear  on  his  own  account." 

Mr.  Ronald  laughed.  "  Well,  perhaps  that's  true. 
In  any  event,  Squire  Stryker  made  himself  so  cor 
dially  disliked  that  when,  one  day,  he  and  his  bailiff, 
as  he  called  him,  had  a  big  scene,  and  Ballard,  the 
bailiff,  was  turned  out,  neck  and  crop,  public  sym 
pathy  was  all  on  his  side,  though  no  one  knew  any 
thing  about  the  facts  in  the  case.  My  father  said 
Squire  Stryker  spoke  of  the  man  as  '  scamp  '  and 
*  rapscallion,'  but,  he  never  really  openly  accused  him 
of  misdemeanor.  There  was  the  scene,  and  the  next 
day  Stryker  closed  his  place,  and  took  himself  and 
his  girl  off,  to  parts  unknown.  The  dismissed  bailiff, 
a  handsome,  prepossessing  chap,  my  father  said,  dis 
appeared,  and  nothing  more  was  heard  of  him.  Idea 
married,  and  came  back  Mrs.  Crewe.  Young  Mrs. 
Crewe,  in  those  days.  '  Ol'  lady  Crewe  up-the-road- 
a-ways,'  now." 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that!"  ejaculated 
Martha.  "  So  that's  the  reason  why,  when  she  hears 
it,  the  name  Ballard's  like  a  rag  to  a  red  bull !  Now, 
what  do  you  think  of  that!  " 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  Mr.  Ronald  asked. 

"  Why,  the  ol'  lady  was  took  sick  suddently  a  few 
weeks  ago,  an'  Sam,  he  couldn't  get  Dr.  Driggs,  who 
was  out  at  the  time,  an',  besides,  wasn't  achin'  to  go 
to  the  poor  ol'  body,  anyhow,  to  have  his  head 
snapped  off,  an'  then  haggle  over  the  bill,  into  the 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  55 

bargain.  So  he  took  the  best  he  could  get,  rreanin' 
Sam  did,  which  was  Dr.  Ballard,  a  fine  young  fella 
from  Boston.  The  minute  the  ol'  lady  clapped  eye 
to'm,  an'  heard  his  name,  she  up  an'  had  a  kinda 
Dutch  fit.  Wouldn't  see'm.  It  was  all  I  could  do, 
what  with  talkin'  an'  contrivin',  to  make  her,  an' 
then  she  set  about  layin'  down  the  law  to  Miss  Kath- 
erine,  forbiddin'  her  parley  with'm,  or  see'm  at  all, 
which  is  as  good  as  sayin',  '  Bless  you,  my  childern !  ' 
over  their  married  heads,  if  she  but  knew  it!  " 

Frank  Ronald  laughed.  "  The  wisdom  of  Soc 
rates!  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Martha,  we'll  make  a 
philosopher  of  you,  yet !  " 

"  Anything  you  like,  sir.  Sever'l  has  lately  men 
tioned  wantin'  to  make  things  outa  me.  The  more 
the  merrier.  An'  if,  in  the  end,  I  ain't  good  for 
nothin'  else,  maybe  they'll  hire  me  in  a  circus,  for 
a  side-show  freak.— THE  MADE  OVER  LADY. 
WHICH,  SHE  WAS  ONCET  JUST  PLAIN 
MARTHA  SLAWSON.  BUT  IS  NOW  SO 
MANY  DIFFERENT  THINGS,  IT'D  MAKE 
YOU  DIZZY  TO  LOOK  AT  HER.  But  I  must 
be  goin'.  Them  childern  o'  mine  will  'a'  turned  the 
house  upside  down  with  their  rapchers  over  the 
presents  you  brought'm." 

Mrs.  Ronald  laid  a  hand  upon  her  husband's  shoul 
der.  "  I'd  like  to  take  a  walk,  Frank.  Won't  you 
come?  " 

"  An'  on  the  way  I'll  show  you  my  new  hen 
house,"  promised  Martha.  "  One  o'  the  things  I'm 
learnin'  to  be,  is  a  chicken-raiser.  I'm  learnin'  hard, 


56  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

an',  you  might  say,  the  chicks  is  learnin'  harder. 
But  it'll  all  come  out  right  in  the  end,  if  both  parties 
hang  on,  an'  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip.  The  first  time 
a  brood  died  on  me,  I  'most  fretted  myself  sick.  But 
now  I  learned  not  to  hitch  my  heart  to  no  hen.  I 
do  the  best  I  can  by  'em,  an'  leave  the  rest  to  prover- 
dence,  an'  the  inkerbater.  Only,  you  can  take  it 
from  me,  them  inkerbaters  may  be  a  improvement 
on  the  old  way,  but  they  certaintly  is  death  to  the 
mother-instinc'  in  hens.  Hens  is  like  women.  The 
less  they  have  to  do,  the  less  they  do,  especially  if 
they  keep  well.  The  minute  you  begin  turnin'  your 
offsprings  over  to  other  parties,  to  be  brought  up, 
that's  the  time  your  sect  is  goin'  to  run  down.  An' 
the  chicks  don't  grow  up  with  no  more  feelin'  o' 
reverence  for  their  elders,  an'  them  that  bore'm,  then 
the  childern  we're  raisin'  nowadays.  It's  all  wrong, 
these  modren  contrivances  is.  We  think  we're  smart, 
shovin'  our  ways  in,  ahead  o'  nature's,  but  just  you 
wait,  an'  see  what  comes  o'  this  generation  o'  kids, 
give'm  time  to  grow  up  to  be  men,  an'  women,  an'  so 
forth.  You  can  take  it  from  me,  George  Wash- 
in'ton  an'  Abraham  Linco'n  wasn't  brought  up  in 
cotton-wool,  so  that  every  time  somebody  crossed'm, 
an'  they  got  red  in  the  face  with  temper,  there'd  be 
a  trained  nurse  to  pop  a  the'mometer  under  their 
tongues,  to  see  if  they  had  a  '  temperachure.'  What 
kep'  their  childish  fevers  down  was  a  good  fannin' 
with  mother's  slipper,  an'  they  grew  up  to  tell  the 
truth  an'  fear  the  devil,  along  with  the  other 
grown-up  members  of  the  fam'ly.  But,  these  days, 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  57 

everything's  for  the  kids,  an'  they  know  it.  Believe 
me,  my  heart  bleeds  for  my  grandchildern.  An', 
talkin'  o'  grandchildern,  here's  the  model  henhouse 
o'  New  England.  Internal  decoratin'  done  by  Mr. 
Sammy  Slawson's  son,  junior." 

Martha  held  her  little  party  back  long  enough  to 
relate  the  tale  of  Sammy  and  the  whitewash 
ing. 

"  An'  I  told'm,"  she  concluded,  "  he  could  walk 
his  little  self  back,  with  his  little  pail  o'  whitewash, 
an'  his  little  brush,  an'  get  busy  an'  keep  busy,  till 
every  last  thing  in  the  place  got  a  good  coat.  I 
told'm,  '  Don't  you  leave  a  thing  go  free,  young 
man !  '  so  I  guess  we'll  see  a  thora  job  this  time,  or 
I'm  mistaken." 

A  spotless  interior,  gleaming,  white,  proved  her 
surmise  correct.  Sammy  had  evidently  made  "  a 
thora  job  "  of  it  this  time. 

Claire  would  have  been  satisfied  with  a  brief 
glance,  but  her  husband  detained  her. 

"  I  say,  Martha,"  he  addressed  Mrs.  Slawson, 
"what  is  it  you  told  young  Sam?  'Not  to  let  a 
thing  go  free  '?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  he's  a  model  boy.  He  has  obeyed  you 
to  the  letter.  Look  here !  " 

Martha,  looking  in  the  direction  indicated,  saw  a 
)unch  of  animate  white,  huddled  disconsolately 
igainst  a  far  corner  of  the  white  wall. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

Mr.  Ronald  made  a  clucking  sound,  and  the  bunch 


58  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

separated  sluggishly,  proving  itself  to  be  two  very 
thoroughly  whitewashed  hens. 

Martha  stared  a  moment  aghast.  Then  gradually, 
as  the  truth  dawned  upon  her,  her  broad  shoulders 
began  to  shake. 

"  The  joke's  on  you,  Martha !  "  Mr.  Ronald  said, 
smiling  quizzically. 

Martha  turned  grave  in  a  moment.  "  Beggin' 
your  pardon,  sir,"  she  returned,  "  I'm  afraid  it's  on 
the  hens.  But,  what'll  I  do  to  Sammy?  He's  a 
young  villain,  o'  course,  only  I  ain't  a  leg  to  stand 
on,  for  to  punish'm.  He's  just  been  mindin'  his 
mother." 

"  '  And  the  moral  of  that  is,'  as  Alice  would  say, 
that  even  obedience  can  sometimes  be  too  complete," 
observed  Mr.  Ronald  with  relish. 

Whatever  misgivings  young  Sam  might  have  en 
tertained,  nothing  in  his  mother's  demeanor,  when 
she,  Miss  Claire,  and  Lord  Ronald  arrived  at  the 
Lodge  a  little  while  later,  seemed  to  justify  them. 

Perhaps  she  hadn't  seen  the  hens.  Perhaps  the 
hens  had  licked  or  lapped  the  whitewash  off,  an  in 
spiration  derived  from  his  experience  with  Flicker, 
the  dog,  and  Nixcomeraus,  the  cat.  In  any  case, 
Mrs.  Slawson  was  apparently  undisturbed,  standing 
by  (young  Sam  noticed  his  mother  never  sat  in  the 
presence  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  "  like  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Ronald,  Dr.  Ballard,  or  Miss  Katherine ") 
as  Miss  Claire  inquired  after  Ma's  health. 

"  Fair-rly,  fair-rly,  thank  you  kindly,"  the  old 
woman  was  responding,  "  I'm  thryin'  a  new  remidy, 


59 

now,  an'  I  think  it's  goin'  to  help  me.  Ol'  Mis' 
Harris  says,  '  no  matther  who  ye  a-are,  or  what 
ails  ye,  if  ye  get  a  nutmeg,  an'  bore  a  hole  through't, 
an'  string  it  on  a  white-silk  t'read,  an'  a  black-silk 
t'read,  an'  hang't  'round  your  neck,  ye'll  be  sur 
prised,'  ol'  Mis'  Harris  says." 

"  I'd  be  surprised  anyhow,"  observed  Martha. 
"  I'm  always  surprised." 

"And  you  like  living  up  here?"  Mrs.  Ronald 
gently  put  to  the  old  woman. 

"Well,  tolerabl',  tolerabl'.  I  don't  mind  the 
livin'  in  it,  as  ye  might  sa',  but " 

"  Ma  means,  as  long  as  she  lives  she'll  never  die 
in  the  country,"  Martha  supplied. 

"  Well,  if  it  comes  to  dyin'  itself,  I'd  rather  die 
where  there  was  moar  to  be  folla'in'  me.  I  sa'  to  me 
son  Sammy's  wife,  often  an'  often,  '  When  I  die 
don't  ye  go  to  anny  gr'reat  expense  for  me  funerll. 
I  should  want  ye  lay  me  out  decent,  but  plain, 
an' '  " 

Martha  shrugged  good-naturedly.  "  An'  I  always 
answer  back,  '  Don't  ye  trouble  yourself.  In  such 
cases  they  ain't  accustomed  to  consult  the  corpse.'  ' 

"  But  you're  not  thinking  of  dying  yet,"  Claire 
said.  "  I'm  sure  you're  not." 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head.  "  No,  I  don't 
wanta  die — not  while  the  sun  shines  so  bright,  an'  the 
evenin'  star's  so  pretty." 

"  Of  course  you  don't.  And  you're  not  going  to 
die  for  ever  and  ever  so  long.  You  only  feel  a  little 
low-spirited  sometimes,  perhaps.  Isn't  that  it?  The 


60  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

country  seems  strange  to  you,  I  have  no  doubt.  Why 
don't  you  make  some  visits  to  your  other  sons  and 
daughters?"  Mrs.  Ronald  suggested  craftily.  "That 
would  be  a  fine  plan,  I  think.  How  glad  they  would 
be  to  see  you  after  your  long  separation.  And,  oh, 
Martha,  talking  of  visits — you  know  the  visitor  I 
told  you  we  are  expecting  in  August?  I'm  thinking 
of  fitting  up  a  little  room  especially  for — for  her.  I 
have  sent  to  Grand  Rapids  for  all  my  dear  old  things, 
because  I've  a  fancy  they'll  help  to  make  her  feel 
as  happy  as  they  used  to  make  me,  and  perhaps  then 
she  won't  get  homesick,  and  want  to  slip  away  from 
us  as — as  visitors  do,  sometimes.  My  curtains  were 
lovely,  but  I  think  they  need  a  stitch  here  and  there. 
If  you  will  put  them  in  order  for  me — mend  them 
thoroughly,  and  launder  them  in  your  finest  style, 
I'll  give  you — let  me  see !  the  cleaners  in  town  asked 
me  fifteen  dollars.  I'll  pay  you  fifteen  dollars." 

Fifteen  dollars !  Martha's  eyes  gleamed.  Here 
was  her  opportunity  to  earn  the  price  of  her  ticket 
to  New  York  and  back. 

"You'll  do  it?" 

"  You  betcher — I'll  do  it  with  pleasure,  an'  thank 
you  for  the  chance,  Miss  Claire.  An' — my!  but  if 
here  ain't  Dr.  Ballard,  comin'  up  the  walk!  " 

Martha  performed  the  act  of  introduction  with 
dignity,  then  quietly  effaced  herself,  silently  sig 
naling  her  family  to  "  fade  away,  an'  make  room 
for  your  betters." 

Claire  "  took  "  to  the  newcomer  at  once,  predis 
posed  in  his  favor  by  a  certain  shadow  of  resemblance 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  61 

she  saw,  or  thought  she  saw,  to  a  friend  of  her  youth, 
a  certain  Bob  Van  Brandt  who,  once  upon  a  time, 
had  laid  his  heart  at  her  feet.  There  was  the  same 
manly  frankness,  the  same  touch  of  boyish  impetu 
osity.  She  wondered  if  there  were  the  same  fatal 
lack  of  determination. 

What  time  she  pondered,  her  husband  was  hark 
ing  back  to  otherwhiles,  when  a  Ballard  had  lived 
in  the  neighborhood. 

"  My  grandfather,"  the  young  man  said  quite 
simply.  "  He  was  bailiff,  as  they  called  it  in  those 
days,  to  Squire  Stryker." 

Frank  Ronald  liked  that.     It  rang  true. 

Martha  was  not  listening  to  the  conversation. 
Her  mind  was  full  of  the  thought  that  now  she  could 
conscientiously  go  honeymooning  with  Sam. 

"  It  wouldn'ta  been  right  to  take  the  money  outa 
the  little  we  got  saved,"  she  ruminated.  "  That's 
gotta  stay  where  it  is,  no  matter  what.  But  if  I  do 
the  curtain-job,  I'll  have  my  own  cash.  I  can  go 
with  my  own  man,  an'  I  wouldn't  call  the  queen  my 
cousin." 

When,  at  length,  the  Ronalds  took  leave,  Dr.  Bal 
lard,  lingering,  said: 

"  I'm  in  a  hole,  Mrs.  Slawson."  He  paused,  hesi 
tated,  then  colored.  "  I  say  I'm  in  a  hole — really 
it's  Miss  Crewe.  My  difficulty  is,  I  want  to  help 
her  out,  and,  up  to  date,  haven't  been  able.  Madam 
Crewe  is  fretting  herself  into  a  fever  because  the 
fruit  on  the  place  is  going  to  waste.  Confound  it! 
She's  making  Miss  Crewe's  life  miserable,  teasing 


62  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

her  to  *  do  it  up.'  Miss  Crewe  doesn't  know  how 
to  do  it  up,  she  tells  me,  and,  there  you  are !  " 

"  What  about  Eunice  Youngs?  The  girl  I  got  to 
accommodate  for'm,  at  four  dollars  per,"  inquired 
Mrs.  Slawson. 

The  doctor  laughed.  "  Nothing  doing,  I  gather, 
else  Miss  Crewe  wouldn't  be  in  so  deep.  This  morn 
ing  I  managed  to  kidnap  her — Miss  Crewe,  not 
Eunice.  Took  her  for  a  drive.  She  needs  fresh  air 
and  change.  I  took  her  to  Mrs.  Peckett's,  because 
I  knew  Mrs.  Peckett  boasts  she's  the  best  house 
keeper  in  New  England." 

Martha  folded  her  arms  across  her  bosom,  and 
half  closed  her  eyes. 

"  '  If  I  do  say  it  as  shouldn't,'  "  she  repeated  in 
Mrs.  Peckett's  fat,  self-satisfied  voice.  "  '  If  I  do 
say  it  as  shouldn't,  no  one  can  beat  me  on  jells  and 
perserves.  My  jells  and  perserves  have  took  first 
prize  at  the  country  fair,  as  far  back  as  I  can  remem 
ber.'  I  ran  in  oncet  to  ask,  would  she  give  me  a 
helpin'  hand,  or,  rather,  a  helpin'  tongue,  on  the 
perserve  question.  '  Why,  certaintly,'  says  she.  '  I'm 
always  delighted  to  oblige,  I'm  sure.  My  rule  is  sim 
ple  as  A  B  C.  There's  no  art  in  it  at  all.  It's  just 
my  way  o'  doin',  I  s'pose,  for  every  time  I  give  my 
rule  to  anybody  else,  it  never  comes  out  right.'  An' 
then  she  give  me  her  rule,  an'  I  knew  the  reason  why. 

"  '  You  take  what  you're  goin'  to  jar,  and  you 
wash  it,  if  it's  berries,  or  pare  an'  cut  up  if  it's  pit- 
fruit.  Add  water,  an'  set  on  the  stove  in  a  kettle 
till  you  come  to  a  boil.  Add  sugar  an' ' 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  63 

"  'How  much  sugar? '  says  I. 

"  '  Accordin'  to  conscience,'  she  says. 

"  '  How  about  if  you  haven't  got  a  conscience? ' 
I  says.  Mrs.  Peckett  looked  like  she'd  drop  in  her 
tracks  with  shock.  '  Why,  Mrs.  Slawson! '  says  she, 
'  everybody's  got  a  conscience.' 

"  '  Oh,'  I  says.  *  You  see,  comin'  from  the  city 
I  didn't  know.  I  suppose  some  keeps  theirs  just  to 
measure  by,  when  they're  puttin'  up  fruit,'  for  I  was 
tired  o'  seein'  her  dodge  from  the  table  to  the  stove, 
always  tryin'  to  shut  me  off  from  seein'  how  she  done 
things.  As  if  she  couldn't  o'  refused  firstoff,  if  she 
didn't  want  to  help.  /  wouldn't  'a'  minded.  If  she 
done  the  same  to  Miss  Katherine,  I  don't  wonder 
she's  just  about  where  she  was  before — in  the  same 
old  hole." 

"  That's  just  where  she  is,"  Dr.  Ballard  admitted. 
"Have  you  any  suggestions  for  getting  her  out?" 

Martha  pondered  a  moment.  "  Well,  I  never 
took  a  prize  at  no  country  fair,  or  city  one  either, 
for  my  jells,  or  perserves,  or  anything  else.  I  ain't 
a  boss  housekeeper,  an'  I  don't  pertend  to  be,  but 
my  suggestion  is — bright  an'  early  to-morra  mornin', 
me  an'  my  perservin'  kettle  will  wanda  out  to  Crewes- 
mere,  as  they  call  it.  I'll  bring  Sammy  with  me  to 
pick,  an'  sort  the  fruit,  an'  Cora  to  wash,  an'  heat 
the  jars.  They're  used  to  it.  An' — you  just  tell 
Miss  Katherine,  if  you'll  be  so  good,  that  she  can 
heave  the  perserve-trouble  off'n  her  chest.  Tell  her 
don't  worry.  Mrs.  Peckett  ain't  the  only  one's  got 
a  *  rule.'  " 


CHAPTER  V 

**  I  VHE  day  had  been  sultry,  and  sunset  brought 
•*•     no  relief.    Evening  fell  windstill,  breathless. 

For  once  Katherine  was  glad  to  obey  her  little 
martinet  grandmother's  arbitrary  regulation:  Lights 
out  at  nine.  She  sat  by  her  bedroom  window  looking 
out  over  a  white,  moonlit  world,  thinking  black 
thoughts.  Suddenly  she  rose,  for  no  better  reason, 
apparently,  than  that  a  quick,  inner  impulse  of  im 
patience  against  herself,  must  find  vent  in  some  out 
ward  act. 

"  It's  dreadful !  I'm  growing  bitter,  hard,  deceit 
ful.  I'm  living  a  lie.  Acting  as  if  I  were  obedient, 
and  respectful  to  her,  and — feeling  like  a  rebel  every 
minute  in  the  day.  I've  got  to  end  it,  somehow.  I 
can't  go  on  like  this  any  longer." 

Just  outside  her  window  a  little  balcony  (the 
railed-in  roof  of  the  porte-cochere)  shone  like  a  silver 
patch  against  the  darker  foliage.  The  shadows  of 
leaves  cast  an  intricate  pattern  upon  the  moonlit 
space,  and  Katherine  gazed  at  it  abstractedly  until 
a  moving  speck  in  the  motionless  night  caught  her 
attention,  and  fixed  it.  As  she  watched,  the  speck 
became  a  shape,  the  shape  an  automobile  moving 
rapidly,  almost  noiselessly,  toward  the  house,  along 
the  white  ribbon  of  a  driveway.  Just  before  her 
window  it  stopped. 

64 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  65 

"  Hello !  "  called  Dr.  Ballard  softly. 

Katherine  hid  a  radiant  smile  in  the  folds  of  her 
shadowy  curtain.  "  Sh  !  "  she  cautioned.  "  You'll 
wake  grandmother." 

"  Then  come  down.     I've  something  to  tell  you." 

"No.    Too  late!" 

"Nonsense!" 

"  I  can't." 

"  Oh,  very  well." 

His  instant  acceptance  of  her  negative  was  not 
altogether  agreeable. 

One  moment,  and  he  was  bending  over  his  steer 
ing-wheel,  busying  himself  with  the  gear,  probably 
preparatory  to  driving  on  and  away.  The  next,  he 
was  out  of  the  car,  had  scaled  the  porch-pillar, 
vaulted  the  low  railing,  and  was  calmly  sitting  not 
two  feet  away  from  her,  Turk-fashion,  upon  the 
balcony  floor. 

Katherine  laughed.  "  I  didn't  know  you  could 
climb  like  that." 

"  I  can't.  That  wasn't  a  climb.  'Twas  a  scram 
ble.  Bad  work.  But  I'm  out  of  practice." 

"  You  mustn't  stay.  Grandmother  wouldn't  like 
it.  Remember,  she  forbade  my  having  anything  to 
do  with  you." 

"  Sorry,  but  I  don't  feel  obliged  to  conform 
on  that  account.  If  you  don't  like  it,  that's  another 
story." 

Katherine  was  silent. 

Dr.  Ballard  did  not  press  the  point. 

"  You  said  you  had  something  to  tell  me." 


66  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  On  second  thought  I'll  postpone  it." 

"Why?" 

"  The  moonlight  suggests  mystery.  Let's  leave 
it  a  mystery." 

"  I  hate  mysteries." 

"  As  I  diagnose  your  case,  you're  by  way  of  '  hat 
ing  '  most  things,  nowadays.  Come.  Confess. 
Aren't  you?" 

Katherine  nodded  mutely. 

"  Don't  do  it,"  advised  Dr.  Ballard. 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  she  burst  out  with  quite  un 
characteristic  impetuosity.  "  So  much  in  life  is  hate 
ful.  Sometimes,  I  feel  one  isn't  bound  to  endure 
things,  when  they  make  one  so  detestable.  I  was 
thinking  about  it  just  before  you  came.  Thinking 
about  the  sort  of  thing  life  can  make  of  one.  Every 
thing  one  oughtn't  to  be.  I  hate  myself,  along  with 
all  the  rest." 

Dr.  Ballard  sat  with  his  hands  clasped  around  his 
knees,  and  gazed  straight  up  above  him  into  the 
great  stretch  of  dusky  sky,  spangled  over  with  con 
stellations. 

"  I  wonder  what  Mrs.  Slawson  would  say  to 
that?  "  he  ruminated. 

Katherine  started.     "Mrs.  Slawson?" 

"  Yes.  I've  made  it  out  that  she's  rather  a  spe 
cialist,  when  it  comes  to  life,  and  that  sort  of  thing. 
Really,  I  think  it  might  pay  you  to  consult  her.  By 
the  way,  she  asked  me  to  say  that  you  '  can  heave  the 
perserve  trouble  off'n  your  chest.'  She  is  going  to 
see  you  get  a  '  rule,'  or  something." 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  67 

"  Oh,  good !  That  is  a  load  off  one's  mind.  And, 
speaking  of  chests,  it  can't  be  very  good  for  yours, 
to  be  doing  heavy  gymnastics,  such  as  climbing  porch- 
posts.  Can  it?  " 

"Why  not?  My  chest's  O.K.  Nothing  in  the 
least  's  the  matter  with  my  chest." 

"  Oh, — I  thought "  blundered  Katherine 

awkwardly. 

"What?" 

"  Somebody  told  me — I  don't  recollect  who — that 
you  had  a  '  spot '  or  something,  on  your  lung.  I'm 
so  sorry." 

Dr.  Ballard  flung  back  his  head  with  a  low,  boyish 
chuckle. 

"  Somebody's  got  hold  of  the  wrong  case.  My 
nerves,  mixed  with  another  chap's  bellows.  No,  I'm 
not  up  here  on  account  of  any  one  spot — it's  the 
whole  rundown  machine  that  needs  repairing.  I'm 
used  up.  Tired  out." 

"Tired  out — waiting  for  patients?"  asked  Kath 
erine  mischievously. 

Dr.  Ballard  gave  her  a  quick  look.  u  That's  it. 
Waiting  for  patients,"  he  quoted  with  perfect  good 
humor. 

"  I  suppose  it's  hard  work  building  up  a  practice 
in  a  city  as  big  as  Boston." 

"  Quite  hard  work." 

"  Don't  you  get  discouraged?  " 

"Why  should  I?" 

"  Oh,  there  must  be  so  many  obstacles,  hindrances. 
Even  if  you  are  clever,  there  must  be  so  many  older 


68  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

men  with  established  reputations.  Great  physicians, 
great  surgeons." 

"  Precisely.  That's  the  fun  of  it.  The  game 
wouldn't  be  worth  playing,  if  'twas  easy  to  win  out. 
It's  hard.  That's  why  I  like  it." 

Katherine  rose  slowly,  and  stood  in  the  window 
embrasure,  looking  down  upon  him  thoughtfully. 

"  You've  given  me  something  to  sleep  on,"  she 
said.  "  I'll  remember  what  you've  said.  '  The  game 
wouldn't  be  worth  playing,  if  'twas  easy.'  And  I 
have  been  whining  because  it  is  hard." 

"  Katherine !  "  shrilled  a  petulant  voice,  breaking 
rudely  through  the  soft  evening  hush. 

"  Coming,  grandmother." 

"  Good  night!  "  exclaimed  Dr.  Ballard  with  slangy 
intention. 

The  next  moment,  Katherine  saw  his  agile  figure 
disappear  over  the  rim  of  the  balustrade.  She 
turned  quickly  to  answer  the  imperative  call,  all  the 
old  miserable  feelings  returning  in  a  rush. 

"  I  want  a  drink  of  water." 

If  Martha  Slawson  had  been  in  Katherine's  place, 
the  mother-heart  in  her  would  have  understood  that 
childish  call  at  once.  But  the  girl  had  no  experience 
that  would  help  her  to  interpret  the  meaning  of  it. 
She  supplied  the  drink  with  as  much  promptness, 
and  as  little  sentiment,  as  a  nickel-in-the-slot  ma 
chine. 

Madam  Crewe  drained  the  glass  thirstily. 

"  It's  a  warm  night,"  she  observed  socially. 

"  Very  warm." 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  69 

"  Queer  the  way  my  head  acts,"  continued  the 
lonely  old  woman,  obviously  making  conversation 
to  detain  Katherine.  "  Sometimes  it  seems  full  of 
sounds,  so  I  think  I  hear  real  voices  speaking.  A 
little  while  ago,  I  heard  a  man's  laugh,  as  clear  as 
could  be.  You  weren't  downstairs  with  a  caller, 
were  you?  " 

"  I  haven't  been  out  of  my  room  since  supper- 
time,  grandmother." 

The  words  seemed  to  Katherine  to  burn  her  lips, 
as  she  uttered  them.  She  turned  abruptly  to  the  door. 
Her  grandmother  called  her  back. 

'  You  know  what  I've  been  thinking?  " 

Katherine  stood  at  attention,  but  silent,  unequal  to 
the  task  of  counterfeiting  interest. 

"  I've  been  thinking,  I'm  going  to  give  the  cow  to 
Slawson.  It  bothers  me  when  I  can't  pay  my  debts, 
and  the  woman  won't  take  a  cent  for  what  she's  done. 
Besides,  it's  expensive  keeping  live-stock  these  days, 
with  fodder  so  high,  and  labor  even  worse.  We 
don't  need  a  cow,  just  you  and  I.  Cheaper  to  buy 
milk  than  feed  the  creature  through  the  winter,  and 
hire  Peter  to  come  and  milk.  It  counts  up.  Slaw- 
son  can  keep  her,  and  turn  an  honest  penny  letting 
us  have  milk  at  lowest  price.  See?  " 

"  Yes,  grandmother." 

"You  don't  like  the  plan?" 

"  Giving  the  cow  to  Mrs.  Slawson  is  very  nice,  I 
think,  but  I  always  hate  presents  with  strings  to 
them.  Having  to  supply  us  with  milk  takes  the 
cream  off  the  cow." 


70  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  Pooh !  That's  nonsense.  You've  altogether  too 
big  notions.  They'll  get  you  into  trouble,  if  you 
don't  take  care.  I  can  see  you  making  ducks  and 
drakes  of  a  fortune  in  no  time,  if  you  didn't  have 
some  one  to  hold  a  tight  rein  over  you.  By  the 
way,  how  about  those  preserves?  " 

"  I'll  put  them  up  to-morrow,  grandmother." 

"  See  you  do.  Else,  first  thing  you  know,  the  fruit 
will  be  gone.  Rotted  on  the  trees." 

"  I  promise  you,  I'll  put  it  up  to-morrow  without 
fail,"  Katherine  repeated  very  distinctly. 

Back  in  her  own  room  she  laughed  bitterly,  while 
two  hot  tears  slipped  down  her  cheeks.  "  Promise! 
Poor  thing !  and  she  believes  me !  She  thinks  my 
word  is  as  good  as  my  bond.  So  it  is — and  neither 
of  them  is  worth  a  rush,"  she  assailed  herself.  No, 
she  had  forgotten.  She  was  telling  the  truth  about 
the  preserves,  at  least.  Mrs.  Slawson  was  going  to 
let  her  have  a  "  rule."  But  the  false  impression  she 
had  deliberately  conveyed  about  the  caller  still 
"  stuck  in  her  crop,"  as  Martha  would  have  said. 
And  yet,  what  right  had  her  grandmother  or  any 
one  else,  to  tie  her  hand  and  foot,  so  she  must  resort 
to  subterfuge  if  she  wanted  to  move  a  muscle? 

It  wasn't  fair  that  one  life  should  be  crippled  to 
serve  the  whim  of  another.  If  her  grandmother  in 
sisted  on  cutting  her  off  from  all  natural  pleasures,  let 
her  take  the  consequences.  She  fell  asleep  at  last,  nurs 
ing  her  sense  of  injury,  brooding  over  her  wrongs. 

The  next  morning,  while  the  casual  Eunice  was 
clearing  the  breakfast  table,  Katherine  heard  a  sound 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  71 

outside,  which  caused  her  to  hurry  to  the  window. 
The  sound  was  familiar,  but  the  time  for  it  unusual. 
The  doctor's  car  was  not  due  at  Crewesmere  so 
early  in  the  day.  Yet  there  it  was,  and,  as  Kath- 
erine  gazed,  from  it  issued,  as  if  in  installments,  Mrs. 
Slawson,  a  small  boy,  a  big  girl,  and — a  huge, 
granite-ware  preserving-kettle. 

In  less  than  a  minute  the  tempo  of  the  house  was 
changed.  Things  moved  vivace. 

"  Sammy,  you  go  out  with  this  basket,  an'  strip 
them  trees  as  fast  as  you  can  put.  Cora,  you  show'm 
where  to  go,  after  Miss  Crewe  she  tells  you,  that's 
a  good  girl.  Eunice,  get  me  every  one  o'  them  per- 
serve-jars  off'n  the  top  pantry-shelf,  an'  when  you 
wash'm,  see  the  water's  good  an'  hot,  but  not  so's 
it'll  crack  the  glass.  We'll  need  them  scales,  Miss 
Katherine.  I  knew  you  had'm,  or  I'd  'a'  brought 
my  own.  If  you  watch  me  measurin',  an'  write  down 
what  the  perportions  are,  an'  how  I  handle'm,  you'll 
have  a  '  rule  '  for  future  use,  which,  if  it  never  took 
a  prize  like  Mrs.  Peckett's,  certaintly  never  poisoned 
anybody  yet,  that  ever  et  it,  so  far  as  /  know." 

It  was  wonderful  how  the  load  lifted  from  Kath- 
erine's  heart. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  Mrs.  Slawson,"  she  said 
at  length,  "  but  whenever  you're  here,  I  feel  about 
twice  as  strong  and  brave,  as  at  any  other  time.  It 
isn't  alone  that  you  do  so  much,  but  you  make  me 
think  I  can  do  things  too;  things  I  know  I'm  not 
equal  to,  otherwise." 

Martha  smiled.     "  Believe  me,  you  don't  know 


72  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

what  you're  equal  to,  an'  don't  you  forget  it.  No 
more  do  I.  We  ain't  done  up  in  bags,  like  seven 
pounds  o'  sugar,  we  human  bein's,  so's  we  know  what 
we're  equal  to.  The  heft  of  us  comes  out,  accordin' 
to  the  things  in  life  we  got  to  measure  up  to.  When 
I  was  married,  firstoff,  I  thought  I  wasn't  equal  to 
livin'  with  my  mother-in-law,  an'  puttin'  up  with  her 
peculiar-rarities.  But,  laws  o'  man!  I  found  I  was. 
An',  what's  more,  I  found  I  been  equal  to  one  or 
two  other  little  things  since,  worse  than  her,  by  a 
good  sight.  What  helped  me  some,  was  realizin'  I 
got  peculiar-rarities  of  my  own  other  folks  has  to 
be  equal  to." 

Katherine  caught  her  under  lip  between  her  teeth, 
as  if  to  hold  back  words  trying  to  come  out.  A 
minute,  and  they  came. 

"  But,  I  don't  see  why  some  people  have  a  right 
to  make  others  unhappy." 

"  They  haven't.  No  more  than  a  body  has  a 
right  to  make  herself  unhappy.  But  they  do  it,  all 
the  same." 

"  One  wouldn't  mind  making  one  big  sacrifice,  or 
two,  or  three,  in  a  lifetime,  if  that  were  all.  But,  it 
seems,  nothing  is  ever  enough.  You  think  you've 
vanquished  one  thing,  and,  before  you  know  it,  you've 
got  it  all  to  do  over  again.  Has  your  life  been  that 
way,  Mrs.  Slawson?  Does  one  never  get  through 
having  to  give  up  one's  own  wishes  and  will  to  the 
wishes  and  will  of  others?  " 

Mrs.  Slawson  stirred  in  silence  for  a  moment  the 
delicious  brew  simmering  on  the  stove. 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  73 

"Did  you  ever  scrub  a  floor?"  she  asked,  at 
length.  "  No,  o'  course  you  didn't.  Mostly,  ladies 
thinks  scrubbin'  floors  is  dretful  low  work.  Well, 
it  ain't.  Scrubbin'  floors'll  learn  you  a  lot  o'  other 
things,  if  you  let  it.  In  the  first  place,  there's  a 
right  an'  wrong  way  to  it,  same's  there  is  to  tonier 
jobs.  If  you're  goin'  to  begrutch  your  elbow  grease, 
an'  ain't  willin'  to  get  down  on  your  marra-bones, 
an'  attend  strictly  to  business,  you  ain't  goin'  to  suc 
ceed.  Well,  we'll  say,  you  scrubbed  a  spot,  good  an' 
clean.  That  ain't  all.  You  got  to  keep  goin'  back 
on  yourself,  scrubbin'  back  over  the  places  where 
you  left  off,  else  there'll  be  streaks,  an'  when  your 
floor  dries  on  you,  the  streaks'll  show  up,  for  all 
they're  worth,  an'  give  you  dead  away.  As  I  make 
it  out,  it's  just  the  same  with  livin'.  If  you  be 
grutch  takin'  pains,  an'  keep  your  eye  out,  all  the 
time,  for  fear  you'll  do  a  little  more'n  your  share, 
why,  you  can  take  it  from  me,  you're  goin'  to  show 
streaks.  You  better  never  done  it  at  all,  than  done 
it  so's  it'll  be  a  dead  give-away  on  you.  You  can't 
scrub  clean  with  dirty  water,  an'  you  can't  live  clean, 
'less  you  keep  turnin'  out  all  the  messy  feelin's  you 
got  in  you,  an'  refillin'  your  heart  with  fresh,  same's 
you  would  your  water-pail.  But,  even  when  you've 
done  your  job  right,  oncet  ain't  goin'  to  be  enough. 
You  couldn't  keep  clean  with  one  scrub-down, 
no  matter  how  thora.  It's  got  to  be  done 
over  to-morra,  an'  the  next  day,  an'  so  on.  If  a 
body  don't  like  it,  why,  that  don't  change  the  fax 
any." 


74  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  But  all  of  us  don't  have  to  scrub  floors.  And 
I  don't  see  why,  if  one  had  what  you  call  a  job  one 
didn't  like,  he  couldn't  change  it.  Just  say :  I  won't 
live  like  this  any  longer.  I'll  have  something  better. 
If  there  aren't  ways  of  breaking  loose  from  things 
one  hates,  and  making  happiness  for  one's  self,  there 
ought  to  be.  We  should  invent  them." 

"  Well,  p'raps  you're  right.  They  certaintly  do 
a  lot  o'  inventin'  these  days.  They  invented  a  way 
o'  flyin'  above  the  earth.  But  there's  no  way  / 
know  of  you  can  sail  over  your  own  particular  place 
in  the  world.  After  all's  said  an'  done,  you  gotta 
come  back  home,  an'  just  stand  flat,  with  your  two 
little  feet  planted  square  in  the  middle  o'  that  state 
o'  life  onto  which  it's  pleased  the  Lord  to  call  you." 

"  Then  you  don't  believe  people  have  the  right  to 
make  their  own  happiness?  " 

"  Certaintly  I  do.  I  don't  only  think  they  have 
the  right  to,  I  think  they  gotta.  People  have  the 
right  to  make  their  happiness  out  o'  every  last  thing 
comes  in  their  way.  Every  last  scrap  an'  drop  they 
find  anywheres  about.  Same's  you'd  make  a  per 
fectly  good  patch-quilt  out  o'  the  rag-bag,  an'  Ai 
soap  out  o'  drippin's.  Any  gener'l  houseworker  at 
five  dollars  per,  can  make  a  roast  out  o'  a  prime  cut 
o'  beef.  Any  fool  can  be  happy,  if  they're  handed 
out  happiness  in  chunks.  But  it  takes  a  chef-cook 
to  gather  up  all  the  sort  o'  queer  little  odds  an' 
ends  in  the  pantry,  an'  season'm  here,  an'  whip'm  up 
there,  an'  put'm  on  a  dish,  garnished  with  parsley, 
or  smothered  in  cream,  an'  give'm  a  fancy  French 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  75 

name  on  a  menoo-card,  so's  when  they  come  on  the 
table,  you  smack  your  lips,  an'  say  '  dee-licious !  '  an' 
feel  you  got  your  money's  worth." 

"  But  if  one  has  tried  and  tried?  And  it  was 
no  use?  Things  only  got  more  tangled?  " 

Martha  pondered  for  a  moment.  "  Sometimes, 
with  a  new  spool  o'  thread,  you  get  aholt  o'  the 
wrong  end,  an'  then  you  can  pull  an'  pull,  an'  tug 
an'  tug,  till  you're  black  in  the  face,  an'  the  more 
you  do,  the  more  your  cotton  gets  tangled  on  you. 
But  if  you'll  go  easy,  an'  wait  till  you  find  the  right 
end,  it'll  run  off  as  smooth  as  grease.  D'you  mind 
takin'  a  sip  o'  this  licka,  to  see  if  you  think  it's 
sweet  enough  to  suit?  Taste  differs,  an'  some  likes 
more  sugar'n  others." 

"  Well,"  said  Dr.  Ballard  as,  toward  the  close 
of  the  day,  he  was  taking  leave  of  Katherine,  having 
fulfilled  his  professional  duty  to  his  patient  upstairs. 
"  Well,  mademoiselle,  was  Mrs.  Slawson  of  any  use? 
Was  she  a  help?  " 

Katherine  threw  him  a  grateful  glance.  "  A  help? 
Rather.  More  of  a  help  than  you'll  ever  know." 

"  The  preserves  are  made?  " 

"  You  should  view  the  shelves.  They're  a  wonder. 
I  believe  we've  a  stock  that'll  last  us  for  the  rest  of 
our  natural  lives." 

"  And,  you  say,  the  Preserver  has  gone  home?  I 
expected  to  take  her  with  me." 

"  That's  what  she  expected.  But,  about  an  hour 
ago,  Mrs.  Frank  Ronald  drove  up.  She  came  to 


76  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

call,  though,  of  course,  it  was  my  place  to  go  see  her 
first,  as  she's  a  bride,  and  a  stranger.  She  brought 
grandmother  an  armful  of  roses.  The  loveliest 
things !  Long-stemmed  ones,  almost  as  tall  as  she 
is  herself.  Have  you  ever  seen  her?  Mrs.  Ronald? 
She's  the  daintiest  creature !  She  makes  me  feel  a 
giantess.  And  so  unaffected,  and  cordial.  So  dif 
ferent  from  Mrs.  Sherman,  who  was  Katherine 
Ronald.  Somehow,  I  feel  as  if  her  being  here,  were 
going  to  make  things  pleasanter.  I'm  happier,  more 
contented,  and  hopeful,  than  I've  been  for  ever  so 
long." 

"  And  Mrs.  Ronald  sent  her  car  for  Mrs.  Slaw- 
son?" 

Katherine  Crewe  laughed.  "  '  Not  on  your  life,' 
as  Mrs.  Slawson  says.  Mrs.  Ronald  just  took  her 
along  in  the  car  with  her,  preserving-kettle  and  all. 
You  should  have  seen  the  footman's  expression !  I 
had  told  Mrs.  Ronald  about  the  preserving,  and,  as 
soon  as  she  heard,  she  proposed  taking  '  Martha,' 
as  she  calls  her,  back  with  her  when  she  went.  She's 
evidently  a  democratic  little  person.  I  wonder  how 
such  goings-on  will  please  Mrs.  Ronald,  senior,  and 
Katherine  Sherman.  They're  so  frightfully  what, 
when  we  were  children,  we  used  to  call  '  stuck  up.' 
I  know  grandmother  would  be  horrified.  She,  also, 
is  stuck-up,  as  perhaps  you  may  have  gathered." 

"  Yes,  she  has  made  no  attempt  to  hide  it.  But, 
I'd  really  like  to  know  why  /  come  in  for  such  a 
large  share  of  her  disapproval.  To  forbid  you  to 
have  anything  to  say  to  me,  now,  is  really—  If 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  77 

she  weren't  such  a  poor,  helpless  little  old  body,  I'd 
have  it  out  with  her.  Have  you  any  idea  what  the 
trouble  is?  " 

Katherine  flushed.  "  It's  all  too  absurd.  A  man 
by  the  name  of  Ballard  was  bailiff  to  her  father, 
when  she  was  a  girl." 

"  I  know  that.  My  grandfather.  What  then?  A 
bailiff's  is  a  perfectly  good  job.  Look  at  Slawson. 
He's  all  right,  isn't  he?  But,  anyway,  things  haven't 
stood  still  since  those  days.  I'm  not  a  bailiff.  I'm  a 
physician.  What's  the  matter  with  that?  " 

"  Nothing — only " 

"'Only— what?" 

"  She  says "  Katherine  hesitated. 

"  Out  with  it,"  urged  Dr.  Ballard. 

"  She  says  you've  no  practice.    No  income." 

He  laughed  aloud.  "  How  the  deuce  does  she 
know?  " 

"  You're  so  young." 

"  Oh,  I  am,  am  I?  Well,  I'll  tell  you  a  secret: 
I'm  not  quite  so  young  as,  apparently,  I  look.  I 
don't  wear  my  hair  a  little  thin  on  top  because  I  like 
that  style,  particularly.  But,  even  if  she's  right, 
and  I  have  no  practice — no  income — how  could 
that ?" 

Katherine  turned  her  face  away,  unable  to  meet 
his  searching  eyes. 

He  spoke  again  at  once.  "  The  fact  is,  you're 
not  giving  it  to  me  straight.  You're  trying  to  soften 
the  dull  thud,  or  something.  Now,  be  honest. 
Speak  the  truth,  like  a  little  man.  What's  the  rea- 


78  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

son  I'm  persona  non  grata  with  Madam  Crewe? 
Speak  out.  It'll  be  over  in  a  minute,  and  then  you'll 
feel  much  better,  and  so  shall  I." 

"  It's  too  humiliating  to  have  to  repeat  it,"  Kath- 
erine  fairly  wailed.  "  She's  old.  She  doesn't  realize 
how  things  sound.  She  said — I'm  quoting,  word  for 
word — repeating  every  foolish  syllable,  but  you  will 
have  it.  She  said :  '  I  know  the  Ballard  tribe.  I 
knew  it,  when  I  was  young.  It  injured  me  and  mine, 
and  it  will  you,  if  you  don't  leave  it  alone.  Leave 
this  fellow  alone,  and  see  he  leaves  you.  Under 
stand?'" 

"  So !  Well,  that  sounds  '  kinda  moreish,'  as  Mrs. 
Slawson  says.  I  wish  you'd  go  on.  She  didn't  tell 
you  what  the  Ballard  tribe  was  guilty  of?  No? 
Then  I'll  have  to  look  into  it,  and  find  out  for  my 
self.  I  never  was  much  on  genealogy,  but  if  we've 
a  real,  sure-nuff  villain  in  the  family — a  villain  whose 
yellow  streak  is  like  to  crop  out  unto  the  third  and 
fourth  generations — why,  I'm  on  to  his  trail.  I'm 
going  to  hunt  him  down.  It'll  be  something  to 
amuse  me,  while,  as  you  say,  I'm  waiting  for 
patients." 


CHAPTER  VI 

"'\7'OU  take  up  every  little  point  in  the  edge,  an* 

•*•  pin  it  down  to  the  frame,  like  this.  See ! 
Doncher  stretch  the  lace  so  tight  it'll  tear  on  you. 
Gentle  now !  Watch  me,  an'  then  you  folia  suit." 

Martha  had  pressed  Cora  into  service,  to  do  ap 
prentice-duty,  and  was  instructing  her  in  the  gentle 
art  of  curtain-cleansing. 

From  a  far  corner  of  the  garret-room,  where,  for 
convenience  and  safety,  the  frames  had  been  set, 
Flicker,  the  dog,  sat  watching  with  intent  expression. 
Occasionally,  when  one  or  the  other  of  his  friends 
seemed  on  the  point  of  noticing  him,  he  wagged  an 
impartial,  responsive  tail. 

"  I  want  to  do  this  job  so  good  it  couldn't  be 
done  better,"  Mrs.  Slawson  observed,  her  skilful 
fingers  plying  away  busily  as  she  spoke.  Cora 
sniffed. 

"  Seems  to  me  you  always  want  to  do  every  job 
'  so  good  it  couldn't  be  done  better,'  "  she  grumbled. 
"  I  never  saw  anybody  so  particular  as  you.  Ann 
Upton's  mother  ain't.  Ann  Upton's  mother  says  it's 
wastin'  time.  That's  the  reason  she  can  make  Ann 
such  stylish  clo'es,  'cause  she  don't  waste  time.  She 
says  she  does  things  good  enough,  an'  if  folks  don't 
like  it,  they  can  lump  it." 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Upton  certaintly's  got  a  right  to  her 

79 


8o  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

own  opinion.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  deprive  her  of 
it.  But  her  opinion  an'  mine  don't  gee,  that's  all. 
One  thing  I  know — if  you  only  try  to  do  good 
enough,  you're  goin'  to  get  left  in  the  end,  an'  don't 
you  forget  it.  You  can  take  it  from  me,  you  won't 
find  any  admirin'  crowds  lingerin'  'round  your  door 
step,  young  lady.  Did  you  never  hear  the  sayin' : 
Leave  good  enough  alone?  Well,  that's  how  they 
leave  it,  because  everybody  is  hurryin'  to  get  the 
fella  can  be  depended  on  to  do  the  best  work  for 
the  money.  If  you're  satisfied  to  do  things  good 
enough,  you're  goin'  to  be  left  alone,  an'  if  you  like 
that  kind  o'  solitary  granjer,  you're  welcome  to  it. 
That's  all  I  got  to  say — on  this  subjec'." 

For  a  time  there  was  silence,  while  Martha  worked 
industriously,  and  Cora  fumbled  along  with  just 
enough  appearance  of  energy  to  escape  being  "  hauled 
over  the  coals  "  for  laziness.  Presently,  however, 
Mrs.  Slawson  paused. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  announced  cheerfully,  "  I 
believe  you'd  feel  a  whole  lot  more  like  attendin' 
strickly  to  business  if  I  kinda  relieved  you  o'  what 
you  got  under  your  apron." 

Cora  looked  scared.  "  Wha-at? "  she  stam 
mered. 

Her  mother's  expression  continued  bland.  "  Yes. 
It  won't  trouble  me  a  mite,  an'  it's  just  a-burdenin' 
you.  Nobody  can  give  her  mind  to  a  job  when 
she's  hankerin'  after  somethin'  else.  Is  it  a  book, 
now,  or  what  is  it?" 

Cora  began  to  cry.     "  I  think  you're  real  mean. 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  81 

I  ain't  doin'  any  harm.  I'm  workin'  all  right.  I 
can't  have  a  single  thing,  but  you  want  to  see  it." 

"  Sure  you  can't,"  admitted  Martha  imperturba- 
bly.  "  You  mayn't  believe  it,  but  a  mother's  got  a 
reel  sorta  friendly  interest  in  her  childern.  If  a 
mother  keeps  in  touch,  as  Mrs.  Sherman  says,  with 
her  childern's  minds,  it  saves  her  a  lot  o'  keepin'  in 
touch  with  their  bodies,  by  the  aid  of  a  switch,  or 
the  flat  of  her  hand,  as  the  case  may  be.  Now,  your 
mind's  on  what  you  got  under  your  apron,  so  let 
me  get  right  in  touch  with  it,  like  a  little  lady." 

With  a  dismal  wail  that  caused  Flicker's  ears  to 
prick  up  apprehensively,  Cora  thrust  her  hand  under 
her  apron,  and  brought  forth  an  illustrated  peri 
odical. 

"Hand  it  over!"  commanded  her  mother  se 
renely. 

Cora  handed  it  over. 

Martha  examined  the  title-page. 

"  '  THE  INGLE-NOOK  ' !  Now  what  under  the 
sun  is  a  Ingle-Nook,  I  should  like  to  know !  '  THE 
INGLE-NOOK.  Containing  Dora  Dean  Beebe's 
Greatest  Story:  SWEET  SIBYL  OF  THE 
SWEAT-SHOP,  or,  THE  MILLIONAIRE'S 
MATE.'  Dear  me !  Where'd  you  get  aholt  o'  this 
treasure?  Sund'  School  Lib'ry?  " 

"  No !  "  blubbered  Cora,  recognizing  the  fact  that 
her  mother's  question  was  meant  to  be  answered. 

"  Where?" 

"  Ann  Upton.  Ann  found  it  up  to  her  house.  It 
b'longs  to  her  mother." 


82  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  Ho  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Slawson.  "  No  wonder 
Mrs.  Upton  makes  Ann  stylish  clo'es.  If  this  is  the 
sorta  litherchure  she  improves  her  mind  on,  I  can 
see  why  she  feels  about  a  good  many  things  the  way 
she  does.  The  name  of  it,  alone,  is  enough  to  make 
you  neglect  your  work.  I  don't  wonder  you're 
longin'  to  shake  Miss  Claire's  curtains,  for  to  be 
findin'  out  about  sweet  Sibyl  an'  how  she  got  a-holt 
o'  one  o'  them  grand  millionaire  gen'lmen,  that's 
always  hangin'  'round  sweat-shops,  huntin'  for  mates. 
It's  bound  to  be  a  movin'  story.  It  couldn't  help  it. 
Lemmesee!  What's  this? 

"  '  The  ruffian  eyed  sweet  Sibyl  men  '  " — Martha 
hesitated  before  the  elaborate,  unfamiliar  word  con 
fronting  her — •"  '  men-flnngly.  "  Have  a  care!  "  he 
hissed  through  his  clinch-ed  teeth.'  (Doncher  worry, 
I  got  one,  an'  then  some !  I'd  'a'  said,  if  I'd  'a' 
been  Sweet  Sibyl.) 

"  *  Sibyl  turned,  tears  gushin'  to  her  violet  eyes, 
an'  coursin'  down  her  blush-rose  cheeks.  "  I  will 
not  do  it ! "  she  cried,  her  lovely,  musical  voice 
tremblin'  with  emotion.  "  I  will  not  do  it.  Even 
a  worm  will  turn."  (Well,  what's  the  matter  with 
that,  so  long  as  the  worm's  got  plenty  o'  room  to 
turn  in,  an'  turnin'  don't  make  it  dizzy?)  Do  you 
know  what  /  think?  I  think  this  little  story  is  'most 
too  excitin'  for  young  girls  like  us,  Cora.  I  think 
your  father  wants  to  read  it,  instead  of  The  New 
England  Farmer,  an'  if  he  finds  it  won't  keep  us 
awake  nights  or  won't  harm  our  morals  none,  maybe 
he'll  give  it  back  to  us." 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  83 

Cora  wept. 

"  In  the  meantime,  now  this  curtain's  stretched 
good  an'  firm,  let's  kinda  go  over  it  careful,  to  see 
does  it  need  a  stitch  anywheres,  just  to  take  our 
minds  off'n  Sweet  Sibyl,  an'  that  Millionaire  Mate  o' 
hers  with  the  gen'lmanly  taste  for  sweat-shops.  Say, 
Cora,  come  to  think,  p'raps  he  ram  the  sweat-shop. 
P'raps  that's  how  he  come  to  be  a  millionaire.  You 
never  can  tell.  My!  but  ain't  this  a  lovely  jobl  I 
never  stretched  a  curtain  smoother,  or  straighter,  in 
my  life.  It's  as  even  as " 

In  her  enthusiasm  Martha's  arm  swung  out,  in 
a  vigorous  gesture,  which,  somehow  or  other, 
Flicker's  alert  intelligence  interpreted  as  a  command. 
With  a  bound  he  leaped  from  his  sequestered  corner, 
landed,  with  geometrical  precision,  in  the  center  of 
the  curtain,  and  went  through,  as  if  it  had  been  a 
paper-covered  hoop. 

For  a  second  Cora  was  so  dumbfounded  that  her 
sobs  caught  in  her  throat. 

Martha  gazed  at  the  destruction  of  her  lovely 
job  in  silence.  Then,  Cora,  scared  by  the  sudden 
ness  of  the  performance,  seeing  in  the  accident  only 
another  avenue  of  bondage  for  herself,  began  to 
cry  afresh,  aloud. 

Her  mother  lifted  an  undaunted  chin.  "  Well, 
what  do  you  think  o'  that!  "  she  ejaculated.  "  Don't 
cry,  Cora.  You  ain't  hurt.  You're  just  flabber 
gasted.  Flicker  didn't  mean  no  harm,  did  you, 
Flicker?  He  was  just  dreamin'  he  was  one  o'  them 
equestrienne  bareback  ladies,  that  rides  horses  four 


84  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

abreast    in    the    circus,    an'    jumps    through    hoops. 
Flicker's  prob'ly  got  ambitions,  same's  the  rest  o' 
us.     An'  it's  all  right  to  have  ambitions,  only  you 
wanta  be  sure  you're  suited  to  the  part,  if  you  got  it. 
Sometimes  the  ideas  we  got  on  that  subjec'  an'  the 
ideas  God's  got  don't  kinda  gee.    That's  why,  when 
we  get  to  hankerin'  after  what  we  wasn't  intended 
for,   we   so    frequent   land   in   the   middle    an'    fall 
through.     Readin'  such  little  stories  as  Sweet  Sibyl, 
gives  a  body  wrong  notions  o'  that  very  kind.    Now, 
it  wouldn't  be  healthy  for  me,  or  for  you  either,  to 
dream  we  was  Sweet  Sibyls.     We  ain't  that  typical 
type  at  all,  so's  even  if  we  got  a  gait  on,  an'  caught 
up  with  the  millionaire  before  he  got  away   from 
the  sweat-shop  (which  it  would  be  a  stunt  to  do  it, 
outside  o'  THE  INGLE-NOOK),  he  wouldn't  rec- 
o'nize  us  for  his  mate,  on  account  o'  our  eyes  not 
bein'  vi'let,  or  our  cheeks  blush-rose,  or  our  voices 
musical  with  'motion.    Looka  here,  Cora,  d'you  know 
what  we're  in?    We're  in  luck!    The  lace  part  ain't 
harmed  a  mite.     It's  just  the  bobbinet  Flicker  went 
through.     Acrow  bobbinet  can't  be  hard  to  match. 
I'll  get  a  len'th  of  it,  when  I  go  to  the  city,  an'  sew 
the  lace  on  again,  as  easy  as  can  be.    We  re  in  luck !  " 

But,  even  as  she  spoke,  Martha  was  calculating 
how  much  the  len'th  would  cost,  and  to  just  what 
extent  her  precious  fifteen  dollars  would  be  depleted 
thereby. 

"  You  goin'  to  tell  Miss  Claire?  "  asked  Cora  in 
quisitively. 

"No,  ma'am.     What'd  be  the  use?    What  she 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  85 

don't  know  won't  fret  her,  an'  it  wasn't  nobody's 
fault.  When  I've  made  it  right,  it'll  be  right.  The 
less  said,  the  sooner  it'll  be  mended.  'S  that  Sammy 
callin'?" 

"Mother!  Mother!"  the  boy's  strident  voice 
was  heard  shouting  through  the  house. 

Martha  composedly  made  her  way  to  the  stair 
head. 

"  Say,  Sammy,"  she  addressed  him,  "  I  ain't  dead, 
but  if  I  was  you'd  'a'  waked  me,  sure.  Now,  what 
is  it?" 

"Mother!  Whatcher  think!  You  got  a  cow! 
Ol'  lady  Crewe  she  made  you  a  present  of  a  cow! 
A  man,  name  o'  Peter,  he's  brought  the  cow.  '  With 
the  compliments  o'  Madam  Crewe,'  an'  she's  light 
yella,  an'  she  switches  her  tail  like  anything." 

Martha  sat  down  upon  the  top  step  of  the  flight. 
"  Well,  what  do  you  think  o'  that !  "  she  murmured. 
11  This  is  my  busy  day,  an'  no  mistake.  But  who'd 
'a'  thought  I'd  'a'  had  two  such  blows  comin'  on  top 
of  another  before  noon?  P'raps  it  ain't  true." 

But  when  she  got  downstairs  she  found  it  was 
true.  She  regarded  the  cow  dubiously. 

"  If  it  was  a  question  o'  givin'  her  a  good  scrub- 
down,"  she  observed,  "  I  wouldn't  hesitate  a  min 
ute.  Or  even  layin'  a  hand  to  her  horns,  to  polish'm 
up  a  bit,  which  they  certaintly  do  look  sorta  like 
they  needed  it.  But  milk  her!  I'm  afraid  her  an' 
me  won't  understand  each  other  on  the  milk  ques 
tion.  There  might  be  differculties,  meanin'  no  of 
fense  on  either  side." 


86  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  She's  a  good  cow,"  declared  the  Swedish  Peter. 
"  She  is  what  they  call  Alderney,  and  her  milk  it  is 
boss  milk,  thick  mit  cream.  You  will  relish  her 
milk." 

Martha's  face  was  grave.  "  I  don't  doubt  your 
word,  young  fella,"  she  assured  him  meditatively. 
"  What  I'm  wonderin'  is,  when  her  an'  me  has  wras- 
tled  through  our  first  round,  will  my  injuries  be  such 
as  I'll  ever  relish  anything,  any  more?" 

Sam  senior  smiled.  "  I'm  afraid  you're  taking 
her  hard,  mother.  You'll  soon  get  the  hang  of 
her." 

"  No  sooner  than  she's  like  to  get  the  hang  o' 
me,"  returned  Martha.  "  She  ain't  like  hens.  You 
can  tell  by  their  slopin'-back  foreheads,  hens  ain't 
much  of  any,  on  intellec'.  But  this  cow's  differ'nt. 
I  wouldn't  like  to  bet,  now,  I  got  a  mite  more  sense'n 
her,  if  it  come  to  a  argument  between  us.  An'  she 
certaintly  has  the  best  o'  me,  so  far  as  fightin'  quali- 
fercations  goes." 

"  Well,  anyhow,  you've  got  to  thank  Madam 
Crewe,"  Sam  Slawson  mildly  dictated.  "  She's  given 
you  a  big  present,  and  you  must  show  her  you're 
grateful." 

"  Certaintly.  I'll  go  out  there  this  very  afternoon, 
an'  show  her,"  replied  his  wife  obediently. 

So  it  was,  that  the  tiny  old  lady,  sitting  up  that 
afternoon  for  the  first  time  since  her  seizure,  saw 
through  the  open  window,  beside  which  her  chair 
had  been  placed,  Mrs.  Slawson  advancing  along  the 
driveway.  A  quick  gleam  of  satisfaction  lit  up  the 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  87 

unanimated  little  mask  for  an  instant,  while  the 
Madam  gave  a  low  grunt  of  approbation. 

"  Decent  creature.  Comes  to  thank  at  once. 
That's  mannerly,  beyond  her  station,"  she  observed 
to  Katherine.  "  Have  her  up." 

Not  for  the  world  would  Madam  Crewe  have 
admitted  to  herself,  much  less  to  her  granddaughter, 
that  she  had  grown  to  like  this  "  creature  "  made 
of  such  different  clay  from  herself.  She  was  willing, 
not  glad  to  see  her,  but  her  willingness  caused  a 
gentle  glow  to  permeate  her  cold  little  frame. 

"  So  you  like  the  cow?  That's  good.  I  hope 
you'll  treat  her  well." 

Mrs.  Slawson  smiled.  "  Certaintly,  I'll  treat  her 
well,  providin'  she  gives  me  a  show,"  she  promised 
cordially.  "  I'll  treat  her  well,  an'  I  hope  she'll  treat 
me  the  same." 

"  You're  not  afraid  of  her?  " 

"  No'm.  Certaintly  not.  But,  by  the  same 
token,  she  ain't  afraid  o'  me.  Till  the  one  gets  the 
upper  hand  o'  the  other,  neither  of  us  won't  know 
where  we're  at.  An',  meanwhile,  we're  both  lyin' 
low.  I  guess  animals  is  some  like  childern.  They 
like  to  try  it  on,  oncet  in  a  while,  an'  if,  be  this  or  be 
that,  you  don't  master'm  at  the  first  go-off,  they'll 
be  no  earthly  good  to  you.  Even  when  you  got'm 
trained,  they're  like  as  not  to  get  skittish.  Take  my 
girl,  Cora,  or  our  small  dog,  for  instance.  Now, 
Flicker's  as  steady  a  little  fella  as  ever  drew  breath. 
But  this  mornin',  if  he  didn't  suddently  get  gay,  an' 
lep'  right  through  one  o'  the  curtains  I  was  mendin' 


88  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

for  Miss  Claire — I  should  say,  Mrs.  Ronald.  Now, 
it's  up  to  me  to  buy  a  new  half  o'  bobbinet,  an'  all 
for  the  sake  o'  Flicker  dreamin'  he'd  like  to  go  on 
a  tear." 

Madam  Crewe  drew  down  her  lips  primly. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  repairing  the  damage  will  cause 
you  considerable  trouble,"  she  said. 

"  I  don't  mind  the  trouble.  It's  the  bobbinet  / 
mind.  I  wonder,  now,  how  much  you'd  have  to  give 
a  yard  for  fine,  acrow  bobbinet." 

"  Katherine,"  exclaimed  Madam  Crewe,  summon 
ing  the  girl  to  her  so  abruptly  that  Martha  was 
alarmed. 

Miss  Crewe  was  at  her  grandmother's  side  in  an 
instant,  bending  her  head  to  catch  the  whispered 
words  the  old  woman  strained  forward  to  breathe  in 
her  ear. 

"  I  guess  I  must  be  movin',"  said  Martha,  after 
Katherine  had  left  the  room.  "  The  childern  need 
me,  an'  I've  already  tired  you  out  with  my  long 
tongue." 

"No.    Stay.    Sit  down!" 

Mrs.  Slawson  sat,  though  after  her  little  fusillade 
of  commands,  Madam  Crewe  did  not  deign  to  ad 
dress  another  syllable  to  her,  and  made  plain  that 
she  could  dispense  with  conversation  on  Martha's 
part. 

The  silence  had  become  oppressive  when,  at  last, 
Miss  Crewe  reappeared.  With  her  was  Eunice 
Youngs,  and  between  them  they  laboriously  lugged 
a  sizable  chest.  Madam  Crewe  waited  until  the  box 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  89 

had  been  set  down  before  her,  then  imperiously 
waved  Eunice  away  as  if  she  had  been  a  bothersome 
fly.  As  soon  as  she  had  disappeared,  fresh  com 
mands  rapped  out  thick  and  fast. 

"  My  keys.  In  the  basket  hanging  behind  the 
hamper  in  my  closet.  On  the  first  hook.  Yes,  that 
bunch.  Now,  that  key.  No,  not  that  one,  that  one !  " 

Before  Katherine  could  fit  the  key  in  the  lock, 
Madam  Crewe  stopped  her  with  a  gesture. 

"  Wait.  I've  something  to  say.  When  I  was 
young,  a  girl  got  proper  plenishing,"  she  observed 
dryly.  "  In  those  days  a  bride's  outfit  didn't  consist 
of  bows  of  ribbon  on  rags  of  lace — layers  on  layers 
of  nothingness,  as  if  she  were  a  ballet-dancer,  or 
worse.  My  outfit — ('twas  a  good  English  outfit,  no 
flimsy  French  trousseau!)  my  outfit  will  outlast  me 
and  you,  young  lady,  will  reap  the  benefit  of  it,  if 
you  marry  to  please  me.  But  not  a  yard  or  an  inch, 
mind  you  (Slawson  is  here  to  bear  witness  to  what 
I  say!),  not  a  yard,  not  an  inch,  nor  a  penny  of  my 
money,  if  you  marry  otherwise.  And  that  reminds 
me." 

The  old  woman's  eyes  grew  shrewd. 

"  Sometimes  wills  are  contested.  Attempts  are 
made  to  break  them  on  the  ground  of  the  testator 
being  old,  sick,  of  unsound  mind.  If  any  such  thing 
were  to  happen  in  my  case,  I'd  like  you  to  be  able 
to  speak  up  for  me,  Slawson.  Do  you  see  that 
chest?  It  has  not  been  opened  for  sixty-eight  years, 
yet  I  can  tell  you,  to  the  last  yard,  what's  in  it.  I 
was  seventeen  when  I  locked  it  fast,  and  the  key's 


90  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

never  been  turned  in  it  since.  Now,  listen!  so  you 
can  prove  if  my  mind's  intact,  my  memory  good." 

She  reeled  off  a  long  table  of  contents,  with  hardly 
a  pause.  "  Now  open !  "  she  dictated. 

The  raised  lid  revealed  a  mine  of  treasure,  corre 
sponding  in  character,  if  not  precisely  in  order,  to  the 
given  list.  India  mull,  fine  as  a  web,  creamy  as  ivory. 
Matchless  napery  in  rare  old  weaves.  Bed-linen  in 
uncut  lengths. 

"  Enough  to  make  you  shiver  to  think  o'  lyin'  be- 
tween'm,"  Martha  ruminated. 

Katherine's  hands  were  almost  reverent  as,  obey 
ing  her  grandmother's  silent  bidding,  she  lifted  bolt 
after  bolt,  and  laid  it  aside. 

"  There !  That's  what  I'm  after,"  exclaimed  the 
old  woman  at  last.  "  Now,  unwrap  that  blue  paper. 
Careful !  Don't  tear  it !  Is  this  the  sort  of  bobbinet 
you  mean,  Slawson?" 

Martha  leaned  forward,  her  eyes  glowed.  "  I 
guess  Miss  Claire's  ain't  the  quality  this  is,  but " 

"  Probably  not.  This  quality  isn't  made  now 
adays."  Madam  Crewe  spoke  proudly.  "  But  if 
you  think  you  can  use  it  (it's  what  you  call  acroiv 
with  age  instead  of  dye)  you  may  have  enough  for 
one  window,  and  save  your  money.  Katherine,  get 
my  yardstick,  and  the  shears,  and  measure  it  off 
where  I  can  see.  Give  good  measure,  as  I  tell  you, 
but  no  waste.  If  one  window  is  complete,  the  differ 
ence  from  the  others  won't  be  noticed." 

For  once,  Martha  was  fairly  silenced.  The 
madam  appeared  too  occupied  to  notice. 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  91 

"  Girls  are  fools,"  she  ruminated.  "  When  I  shut 
that  chest  I  was  a  girl.  I  vowed  to  myself  I'd  never 
open  it  again.  I  thought  it  was  the  coffin  in  which 
my  happiness  was  buried.  Well,  I  haven't  opened 
it.  My  granddaughter  has  opened  it.  Rather  a 
joke,  when  one  thinks  of  it !  Dear,  dear,  how  it  all 
comes  back!  The  anger,  the  disappointment, 

the "  her  voice  grew  vague.  She  pulled  herself 

up  sharply.  "  Before  you  replace  that  mull,  child, 
if  you'd  like  enough  for  a  frock,  you  can  have  it.  In 
for  a  penny,  in  for  a  pound.  'Twas  a  fool-girl  vow, 
anyway,  made  in  passion — a  lifetime  ago.  .  .  . 
They're  decking  themselves  out  in  lank  draperies 
now,  so  you'll  be  in  the  style,  Katherine.  This  mull 
is  better  and  costlier  than  most  of  the  shoddy  silks 
the  shoddy  people  are  wearing  these  days.  It  will 
prove  you  are  no  nouveau  riche.  You  don't  know 
what  nouveau  riche  means,  do  you,  Slawson?  " 

Martha  paused.  "  No'm.  But  I  always  thought 
I  wouldn't  mind  bein'  the  nouvcau,  whatever  it  is,  if 
I  just  had  a  try  at  the  riche." 

Madam  Crewe  drew  down  her  lips  in  what  Mrs. 
Slawson  had  grown  to  call  her  "  Foxy  gran'ma  "  ex 
pression.  She  turned  again  to  Katherine.  "  I'll  give 
you  a  fichu  to  wear  with  the  mull.  A  French  thing, 
handworked,  trimmed  with  Mechlin,  rather  good 
Mechlin,  as  it  happens.  I  never  wore  it.  'Twas  too 
large.  Swallowed  me  up.  But  the  long  ends  won't 
trail  on  you.  There,  there!  Don't  thank  me.  I 
hate  sentimentality.  And  I've  almost  been  senti 
mental  myself — after  sixty-eight  years.  I  know 


92  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

you're  pleased.  I  understand  my  sex.  We're  sirens, 
all  of  us,  at  heart — when  we  have  any  heart.  I've  not 
the  slightest  doubt,  now,  but  if  Slawson  put  on  a 
pair  of  silk  stockings  and  a  lace  petticoat,  she'd 
feel  as  coquettish  as  any  of  us.  No  matter  how  plain 
we  are,  we  all  have  the  instincts  of  beautiful  women. 
We're  made  that  way.  .  .  .  Now  close  down  the 
lid.  See  you  turn  the  key  all  the  way  'round.  I 
recollect  the  lock  is  tricky.  Slawson,  help  Miss  Kath- 
erine  carry  the  chest  back  where  it  came  from.  Put 
it  away  where  you  found  it,  and  be  sure  to  fasten 
the  trunk-room  door,  and  bolt  it  securely.  And, 
Slawson,  you  needn't  come  back  here,  when  you've 
done.  Just  take  your  acrow  bobbinet,  and  march 
home  to  your  husband  and  children,  where  you  be 
long.  I'm  tired." 

Something  "  Slawson  "  could  not  have  analyzed 
kept  her  silent  after  she  and  Miss  Crewe  left  the 
room.  Katherine  was  singularly  mute.  Martha  had 
waved  the  girl  aside,  and,  grappling  with  the  chest 
single-handed,  triumphantly  had  carried  it  off,  the 
little  madam  watching  the  performance  covertly, 
with  eyes  glistening  appreciation. 

Her  feat  successfully  accomplished,  Martha  went 
her  way,  clasping  her  precious  bundle.  She  was 
home  before  she  was  aware.  Sam  met  her  at  the 
door,  his  face  revealing,  to  her  who  knew  it,  a  secret 
delight. 

"I'm  to  go  to  the  city  next  week,  mother.  So, 
pack  your  bag  and  get  ready  for  your  wedding-tour," 
he  greeted  her  with  sober  fun. 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  93 

"  Have  you  told  Ma  and  the  childern?  " 

"  No.    I  thought  you'd  better." 

"  Good.  No  hurry.  Time  enough  later.  I  hope 
Ma  won't  kick.  It'll  mean  some  work  for  her,  while 
I'm  gone — /'/  she  does  it,  but  nothing  she  can't  reel 
off  easy  enough,  if  her  spirit  is  willin'.  I  got  a  pres 
ent,  Sam.  From  the  ol'  lady." 

"  Yes,  I  know.    The  cow." 

"  No,  I  mean  somethin'  else.  The  ol'  lady  give 
me  a  surprise.  She  give  me  a  front  seat  to  see  her 
do  a  new  turn,  an'  she  passed  out  soovenirs  to  the 
audience,  besides.  I  got  mine  here." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  What'll  take  me  with  you  down  home.  I  mean, 
New  York." 

"Money?" 

"  As  good  as.  It'll  be  money,  when  I'm  done  with 
it.  Only,  from  now  on,  for  some  days  to  come,  I'm 
goin'  to  be  Little  Martha  the  Lace  Mender,  or,  The 
Postponed  Bride,  an'  a  buzz-saw  will  be  safe  for  any 
body  to  monkey  with  by  comparising." 

It  was  a  proud  day  for  Martha  when,  her  stint 
completed,  she  was  able  to  carry  the  curtains,  ex 
quisitely  cleansed  and  mended,  to  Miss  Claire. 

"  Now  I've  the  money  ackchelly  in  my  pocket,  I'll 
tell  Ma  an'  the  childern,"  she  said  to  Sam,  who  was 
washing  his  hands  at  the  sink,  preparatory  to  sitting 
down  to  his  midday  meal. 

"  I  wonder  if  Ma'll  kick?  "  he  pondered  sol 
emnly. 

"  Nothin'  like  tryin',  an'  fmdin'  out,"  Martha  re- 


94  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

turned,  "  dishing  up,"  with  energy,  as  one  after  the 
other  of  her  hungry  brood  appeared,  responding 
to  her  resounding  call  of  "  Dinner!  " 

"  Say,  Cora,  doncher  attempt  to  come  to  the  table 
with  that  shaggy-lookin'  head  on  you.  Go  smooth 
your  hair  back  proper,  like  you  always  wear  it.  I 
don't  mind  most  things,  but  to  set  down  to  eat  along 
side  somethin'  looks  like  a  sky-tearer  dog,  /  will  not! 
Sammy,  take  your  hands  outa  your  pockets,  like  a 
little  gen'lman,  an'  help  Sabina  tie  her  napkin  on 
an'  get  into  her  high  chair.  Sabina,  you  leave  your 
brother  tie  your  napkin  on,  when  he  offers  to  do 
it!  I'm  busy.  Say,  Francie,  when  I  told  you  trim 
the  lamp  this  mornin',  I  didn't  mean  cut  the  wick  in 
scollops.  Lucky  I  happened  to  see  it,  or  we'd  'a' 
been  smoked  out  o'  house  an'  home.  Now,  Ma,  if 
you're  ready,  we'll  sit." 

Ma  being  ready,  they  sat,  and  the  meal  progressed, 
notwithstanding  the  fact  that  Cora,  reappearing, 
shorn  of  her  modish  coiffure,  was  in  no  mood  for 
merry-making. 

"I  hate  my  hair  this  way!"  she  announced  for 
the  benefit  of  whom  it  might  concern. 

"  Ringlets  is  one  thing,  stringlets  is  another,"  said 
Martha,  unreproachfully.  "  At  least,  now  you  don't 
look  like  somebody'd  been  woolin'  the  head  of  you. 
Have  some  ,stew?  " 

"  No,  I  hate  the  very  name  o'  stew." 

**  Call  it  rag-goo,  then,  same's  Miss  Claire's  grand 
chef-cook  does.  Have  some,  anyhow,  for  luck. 
Here,  cheer  up,  Cora !  When  I  was  a  kid,  I  was  one 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  95 

o'  nine  childern,  an'  you  can  take  it  from  me,  we 
wasn't  thinkin'  half  so  much,  in  them  days,  what 
we'd  eat  as  where  we'd  get  it.  When  I  was  twelve 
— two  years  younger  than  you — I  went  to  live  out 
scullery-maid  with  Mrs.  Underwood,  God  bless  her! 
where  my  mother'd  been  cook  before  me.  From  that 
day,  I  never  went  hungry  no  more,  nor  the  ones  at 
home  either.  But  I  don't  like  to  see  my  childern 
turn  up  their  noses  at  good  food.  It  ain't  becomin'. 
Now,  eat  your  rag-goo  like  a  lady,  an'  we'll  call  it 
square.  Say,  Ma,  you  know  what  Sam  an'  me's  goin' 
to  do?" 

Ma  shook  her  head,  after  the  fashion  of  a  mild 
bovine  chewing  the  meditative  cud. 

"  We're  goin'  to  play  hookey.  We're  goin'  to 
fly  the  coop,  for  a  couple  o'  days,  an'  go  back  home, 
to  New  York.  Sam's  gotta — on  business,  an'  I'm 
goin'  ta,  on  pleasure." 

The  moment  following  Martha's  announcement 
was  one  of  intense  silence.  The  children  and  Ma 
were  too  amazed  to  speak.  The  idea  of  Mother 
deserting,  even  for  a  few  days,  was  hardly  conceiva 
ble.  Then,  as  the  monstrousness  of  it  began  to  perco 
late,  there  rose  a  chorus  of  protest. 

"O— oh,  mother-r!     What'll  we  do?" 

"  I  wanta  go  too !  " 

"  No,  take  me,  mother!  " 

Cora's  voice,  at  last,  dominated  the  rest. 

"  Hush!  Mother,  can't  you  make  them  hush?  / 
wanta  say  something!  " 

Martha  checked  the  tumult  with  a  warning  hand. 


96  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  Cora  has  the  floor,  childern.  Let  her  have  her 
say,  an'  then  you  can  have  yours." 

"  Silence  in  the  court-house,  the  cat's  goin'  to 
preach ! "  Sammy  disrespectfully  whispered  in 
Francie's  ear. 

"  I  think  it's  nice  mother'n  father  're  goin'  down 
to  New  York,"  Cora  announced.  "  It  seemed  kinda 
funny,  firstoff,  but  I  think  it's  nice.  An'  they'll  have 
a  good  time.  I'm  glad  they're  goin'." 

Sam  senior  and  Martha  exchanged  a  look. 

"  Good  for  you,  Cora  !  You're  a  good  girl !  "  said 
Sam. 

With  the  eldest  sister  approving,  and  praised  for 
doing  so,  the  ground  was  cut  from  under  the  younger 
children's  feet.  They  had  nothing  to  say. 

"Well,  Ma?"  suggested  Martha. 

"I'm  glad  you're  goin'  too,"  observed  the  old 
woman,  "  for  I  ben  thinkin',  a  long  time,  I  do  be 
needin'  a  change  meself,  an'  I  wouldn't  dare  for  to 
be  venturin'  on  the  r-railroad  alone.  So,  when  the 
two  of  youse  goes  down,  why,  I'll  just  fare  along 
wit'  chu." 

"  But  Ma,"  objected  Sam  gently,  "  we  can't  make 
out  to  take  you.  We've  barely  enough  to  take  our 
selves.  Mr.  Ronald  pays  my  expenses,  but  Martha's 
goin'  to  buy  her  own  ticket  with  the  money  Miss 
Claire  paid  her  for  the  curtains." 

"  You  got  somethin'  laid  by,"  suggested  Ma 
shrewdly. 

"  But  we  can't  touch  it.  It's  the  first  we  ever 
been  able  to  save,  an'  I  wouldn't  lay  finger  on 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  97 

it  for  anythin'."  Martha  answered  with  unusual 
feeling. 

Ma  was  not  disturbed. 

"  Well,  between  youse  be  it !  "  she  declared.  "  I 
d'kno'  how  you'll  settle  it,  but  this  I  kno' — I've  bided 
here  the  longest  I'm  abl'.  I  can  thole  it  no  longer. 
I'm  goin'  to  the  city.  The  heart  in  me  is  wastin' 
awa'  to  see  me  dear  sons  an'  daughters  down  there. 
So  let  there  be  no  colloguin'.  I'm  goin'  to  the  city." 


CHAPTER  VII 

TT  was  late  that  night,  and  Martha  and  her  hus- 
band  were  still  engaged  in  whispered  con 
ference. 

"  Ma's  mind's  like  a  train,"  Mrs.  Slawson  ob 
served  at  length,  "  when  it's  oncet  made  up,  you  can 
take  it  or  leave  it,  but  it's  goin'  its  way,  weather  or 
no.  There's  no  use  strivin'  with  her,  Sam.  We're 
bound  to  give  in,  in  the  end,  an'  we  may  as  well  do 
it  firstoff,  an'  save  our  faces.  What's  the  good  kickin' 
against  the  bricks?" 

"  But  for  her  to  use  your  hard-earned  money  just 
to  gratify  a  whim !  "  Sam  fairly  groaned. 

"  Well,  wasn't  that  what  /  was  goin'  to  use  it  for? 
An'  after  all,  she's  old.  Let  her  have  her  bit  o'  fun. 
God  knows  I  don't  begrutch  it  to  her.  She  don't 
get  much  joy  outa  her  life." 

"  She  has  as  much  as  you  have." 

A  wonderful  look  irradiated  Martha's  face.  "  I 
have  you,  Sam,"  she  said  in  a  voice  that  matched 
the  look.  An  instant,  and  both  were  gone.  Martha 
was  her  old  self  again.  "  An'  I've  the  childern — 
an'  the  hens — an'  the — cow!  " 

"  Ma  acts  like  a  child  sometimes,  and  a  bad  child 
at  that." 

"  Certaintly  she  does.  I  sometimes  think  it's  a 
kinda  pity  a  body  can't  lick  her  good,  an'  put  her  to 

Q8 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  99 

bed  '  to  await  the  results  of  her  injuries,'  as  the  papers 
says.  But  what's  the  use  o'  growin'  old,  if  your 
white  hairs  don't  bring  you  the  respec'  your  black 
ones  didn't?  No,  we  gotta  bear  with  Ma,  Sam,  an' 
it's  better  grin  than  groan,  while  we're  doin'  it." 

So,  when  the  appointed  day  arrived,  it  was  Ma,  not 
Martha,  who  accompanied  Sam  to  New  York  on  his 
"  wedding-tour." 

"  My !  I  bet  it's  hot  on  the  train  !  "  exclaimed  Cora, 
appearing  after  a  prolonged  absence,  seatingherself  on 
the  doorstep,  from  which  the  late  afternoon  sun  had 
just  departed,  fanning  her  flushed  face  with  her  hat. 

For  the  first  time  during  the  busy  day,  Martha 
paused  long  enough  to  listen. 

"  I  guess  it's  a  hunderd  in  the  shade,"  she  ob 
served.  "  But  then,  o'  course,  you  don't  have  to 
stay  in  the  shade,  less  you  wanta." 

Literal  Cora,  taking  her  seriously,  came  in  out  of 
the  shade.  "  Mother,  do  you  know  something?  " 

Martha  considered.  "  Well,  when  I  was  your 
age,  I  thought  I  did.  But  now,  the  only  thing  I 
know,  is,  I  don't." 

Cora  pursed  her  lips.  "  Do  you  know,  I  think 
Dr.  Ballard  likes  Miss  Crewe  a  lot." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so?" 

''  Well,  the  other  day,  I  saw'm  walk'm'  together 
down  Cherry  Lane.  An'  to-day  I  saw'm  again.  An' 
I  think  it  looks  awful  loverish  to  be  walkin'  in  Cherry 
Lane,  where  the  trees  branch  over  so,  an'  it's  all 
quiet,  an'  green,  an'  lonesome,  an'  nobody  hardly 
ever  comes,  exceptin' " 


100 


"  Snoopy  little  girls  who've  no  business  there," 
supplied  her  mother  genially. 

Cora  sniffed.  "  Well,  I  guess  you'll  be  glad  I  was 
there,  when  you  see  what  I  got.  An'  I  guess  they'll 
be  glad  too.  One  of'm  dropped  it  an'  never  noticed, 
an'  went  off,  an'  left  it  lyin'  in  the  middle  o'  the  lane. 
After  they'd  gone;  I  saw  somethin'  kind  o'  like  a 
yellow  spot  sittin'  up  in  the  grass,  an'  I  went  an' 
picked  it  up,  an'  it  was  a  bunch  o'  letters,  tied  with 
a  pink  ribbon.  The  ribbon's  so  old  it  most  frays 
away  before  you  touch  it." 

Martha  extended  a  quiet,  but  coercive  palm. 
"  Hand  it  over." 

Cora  obeyed,  craning  her  neck  to  see  the  last  of 
the  fascinating  sheaf. 

"  Ain't  it  funny  writin'  ?  "  she  inquired.  "  '  Mifter 
Daniel  Ballard.'  What  does  Mifter  mean,  mother? 
She  don't  call  him  Mifter  inside.  She  calls  him, 
'  Beloved  Daniel.'  " 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

Cora  hung  her  head.    "  I  peeked,"  she  confessed. 

"  How  many  of  the  letters  did  you  peek  at?  " 

"  All  of  'em.  An',  oh,  mother,  it  wasn't  any 
harm,  'cause  they're  fearful  old.  Eighteen-hundred 
and  forty-four,  they  have  written  on  'em.  An'  the 
one  who  wrote  'em,  her  name  was  Idea  Stryker. 
She  must  be  dead  an'  buried  long  ago,  mustn't  she, 
mother?  I  guess  p'raps  she  died  because  her  beau, 
he  didn't  answer  her  letters,  or  come  to  meet  her 
'  down  Cherry  Lane  '  like  she  begged  him  to.  She 
felt  simply  terrible  about  it.  She  liked  him  a  whole 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  101 

lot,  but  he  got  mad  at  her,  or  something,  and 
wouldn't  answer  her  letters,  or  meet  her,  or  any 
thing.  When  I  get  to  be  a  grown-up  young  lady, 
I'd  like  to  write  such  elegant  love-letters  to  some 
body." 

"  He'd  prob'ly  go  back  on  you,  if  you  did.  You 
see  what  happened  to  this  poor  lady,  an'  hist'ry  re 
peats  itself,  like  Mrs.  Peckett.  But  what  I  wanta 
tell  you,  Cora,  is  this:  You  done  a  wrong  thing. 
You  had  no  business  snoopin'  into  what  wasn't  your 
concern.  Never  you  do  so,  no  more." 

Cora's  voice  sank.  "  I  didn't  know  'twas  wrong, 
mother." 

"  Did  you  know  'twas  right?  "  Martha  demanded. 
"  A  good  way  to  do,  when  you  don't  know  a  thing's 
wrong,  is,  stop  a  minute,  an'  make  sure  it's  right. 
See  you  folia  that  rule  after  this.  Meanwhile, 
doncher  let  a  hint  out  o'  you,  to  Ann  Upton,  or  any 
body  else,  about  these  letters.  D'you  hear?" 

"  Why?  "  asked  Cora  inquisitively. 

Martha  cast  about  for  a  reason  potent  enough  to 
silence  the  childish,  chattering  tongue. 

"You  don't  want  to  be  disgraced,  do  you? 
Havin'  folks  know  you  pried  into  things  wasn't  meant 
for  you?  Such  scandals  is  sure  to  leak  out,  if  you 
whisper'm  broadcast.  If  Mrs.  Peckett  oncet  got  a 
wind  of  it,  you'd  never  hear  the  last." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mrs.  Slawson's  mind  was 
concerned  much  less  with  Cora's  reputation,  just  at 
that  moment,  than  with  the  letters  she  had  obliged 
that  reluctant  young  lady  to  hand  over.  Now  they 


102  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

were  in  her  own  possession  what  should  she  do 
with  them?  To  whom,  by  rights,  did  they  belong? 
'  The  letters's  signed  Idea  Stryker,  which,  I  re 
member,  Mr.  Ronald  said  that  was  ol'  lady  Crewe's 
queer  name,  before  she  was  married.  But  she 
wrote'm  to  somebody  by  the  name  o'  Ballard,  which, 
I  bet,  he  was  the  doctor's  gran'pa,  or  somethin'. 
Now,  who  the  lawful  owner  of  them  letters  is,  it 
certaintly  takes  my  time  to  decide.  P'raps  I  better 
wanda  over  to  Miss  Katherine  after  supper,  an' 
give'm  to  her.  An'  then,  I  may  be  wrong." 

The  children,  properly  fed,  cautioned  "  not  to 
light  the  lamp,  but  set  outdoors  like  little  ladies  an' 
gen'lmen,  an'  get  the  air,  an'  cool  off,  an'  listen  to 
the  katy-dids  doin',  till  I  come  back,"  Martha  pro 
ceeded  to  wander  over  to  Crewesmere. 

Katherine  had  not  yet  gone  upstairs,  when  she 
spied  the  familiar  form  approaching  through  the 
waning  light. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Slawson,"  she  said,  going  down  the 
garden-path  to  meet  her.  "  I'm  so  glad  you've  come. 
I've  been  thinking  about  you,  ever  since  you  were 
here  last,  because  I'm  in  trouble,  and,  I  feel,  some 
how,  you  can  help  me  out.  You've  helped  me  out 
before,  you  know." 

Her  wistful  attempt  at  a  smile  went  to  Martha's 
heart. 

:<  Well,  my  dear,  helpin'  out  is  my  speciality. 
Reg'lar  service  I  have  not  done  since  I  was  married, 
but  helped  out  by  the  day,  as  there  was  need.  So, 
here  I  am,  an*  if  I  can  be  of  use,  I  never  counted  my 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  103 

day  by  the  clock,  an'  if  the  childern  fall  asleep  on 
the  grass  itself,  it  won't  hurt'm  none.  It's  too  hot 
to  rest  indoors,  anyhow." 

"  We'll  go  to  the  back  porch,  where  our  voices 
won't  disturb  grandmother,"  explained  Miss  Crewe, 
leading  the  way. 

"  P'raps  I  better  tell  you  right  off  what  brought 
me,"  Martha  began,  taking  the  lower  porch  step  to 
sit  upon  in  preference  to  the  more  comfortable  chair, 
on  the  level  with  her  own,  which  Katherine  indi 
cated. 

"  No,  please  don't!"  Miss  Crewe  protested. 
"  Let  me  speak  first.  I'm  so  afraid  something  may 
happen  to  interrupt,  and  I  know  mine  is  more  impor 
tant.  I  must  tell  some  one." 

The  girl  did  not  pause,  except  to  take  breath  be 
tween  her  difficult  sentences. 

"  You  remember  the  day  grandmother  had  me 
bring  her  her  linen-chest?  It  all  dates  from  that 
day,  I  mean  my  trouble.  I  thought  I  knew  before, 
what  trouble  was,  but  real  trouble  is  only  what  one 
has  to  account  for  to  one's  own  conscience." 

Martha  pretended  not  to  notice  the  sobbing  breath, 
on  which  the  last  syllables  caught,  and  were  choked 
out. 

"  Grandmother  never  took  her  eyes  off  the  chest 
while  I  unpacked  it,"  Katherine  labored  on  gallantly. 
"  Never,  except  once.  She  said  she  knew  everything 
that  was  in  it.  But  she  didn't.  There  was  something 
she  didn't  mention.  I  came  on  it,  lying  almost  at 
the  bottom  of  the  chest.  An  odd,  old-fashioned 


104  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

pocket,  hung  on  a  strap,  as  if  it  had  been  suspended 
from  a  belt  or  a  sash,  and  the  strap  was  snapped— 
torn.  A  tiny  bit  of  a  shred  was  caught  in  the  lock 
of  the  chest.  I  saw  it,  as  soon  as  I  opened  the  lid. 
As  my  fingers  touched  the  pocket,  something  inside 
it  crackled.  My  heart  fairly  leaped,  for  I  thought 
'twas  money.  And — oh,  Mrs.  Slawson,  I  need 
money!  You  mayn't  believe  it,  but  I  do.  I  never 
have  a  cent  I  can  call  my  own,  and  I'm  not  allowed 
to  try  to  earn  anything.  You  know — my  father  had 
plenty,  and  I  ought  to  have  plenty,  if  I  had  my 
rights.  I've  sat  here  evening  after  evening,  thinking, 
thinking,  what  I  could  do  in  case  of  need — in  case  a 
time  came,  when  I  couldn't  endure  it  any  longer. 
And  when  I  felt  what  was  inside  that  pocket,  when 
I  felt  it  crackle,  I  thought  it  was  money,  and — it 
was  like  a  gleam  of  hope.  I  watched  for  my  chance. 
It  came  at  last — the  one  time  when  grandmother 
glanced  away.  I  grabbed  the  pocket,  and  hid  it  in 
my  dress.  I  didn't  stop  to  think  what  I  was  doing. 
But  if  I  had,  I  don't  believe  it  would  have  made 
any  difference.  I  didn't  care  if  I  was  stealing.  I  just 
wanted  that  money!  It's  shameful  to  sit  here,  and 
face  you,  and  tell  about  it,  but — I  guess  I'm  past 
shame.  And  then  she  gave  me  the  mull,  and  was 
kind.  I'd  have  put  the  money  back  then,  but  it  was 
too  late.  She  never  took  her  eyes  off  me  again,  nor 
the  chest.  And  then — later — after  you'd  gone,  I  stole 
away  to  my  room,  and — what  was  in  the  pocket 
wasn't  money  at  all,  but  letters  !  Old,  useless,  misera* 
ble  letters !  " 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  105 

"Did  you  read'm?"  asked  Martha  to  cover  the 
painful  effort  the  girl  was  making  at  self-control. 

"  No,  I  didn't  read  them.  After  I'd  taken  the 
pocket,  believing  it  held  money,  and  found  only  let 
ters,  I  was  too  honorable  to  read  the  letters." 

She  spoke  with  bitterest  self-contempt. 

"  I  carried  them  in  my  dress,  because  I  didn't  dare 
leave  them  anywhere  else.  And  to-day  I — I — lost 
them.  I  know  they  were  letters  written  by  my  grand 
mother,  when  she  was  a  girl.  Her  handwriting  hasn't 
changed  much,  and  I  know  if  she  dreamed  they  were 
lying  about  loose,  lost,  perhaps  had  been  found  by 
some  busybody,  who  would  publish  them  all  over 
town,  she'd " 

"  That's  just  what  I  come  to  tell  you,"  Mrs.  Slaw- 
son  announced  with  a  breath  of  relief.  "  Thanks 
be !  'twas  my  girl,  Cora,  found  the  letters,  an'  she 
brought'm  home  to  me.  Not  a  soul  besides  us  two 
has  laid  eyes  on'm.  Cora  don't  know  any  more  than 
the  angels  above,  that  the  one  wrote'm  ain't  dead 
an'  gone,  with  a  antapsie  held  over  her  remains,  this 
many  a  year.  So,  for  all  I  see,  your  troubles  are 
over,  you  poor  child,  an'  you  can  lay  your  head  on 
your  pilla,  an'  sleep  sound  this  night,  if  the  heat, 
which  it  certaintly  is  prosteratin',  don't  pervent. 
Here's  the  letters." 

Katherine  smiled  faintly  as  she  took  the  little 
packet. 

"  If  I  may  make  so  bold,  did  you  mean  to  be 
givin'  the  letters  to  Dr.  Ballard?"  Martha  inquired, 
after  a  thoughtful  pause.  "  I  own  up  to  you,  I 


106  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

ain't  been  so  fussy  as  not  to  read  the  name  on  the 
envelopes." 

Miss  Crewe  winced.  "  Of  course.  That  was 
right.  No,  I  hadn't  planned  to  give  him  the  letters. 
At  first  I  thought  I  would,  but  then  I  was  afraid 
I  might  be  obliged  to  tell  him  how  I  came  to  have 
them,  and — I'm  a  coward.  I  couldn't  bear  to  risk 
it.  Do  you  think  it's  my  duty  to  tell  Dr.  Ballard, 
Mrs.  Slawson?  Tell  me  what  you  think  I  ought  to 
do." 

"  When  a  body  sets  out  to  tell  another  body  what 
she'd  ought  to  do,  he  better  be  careful,"  replied  Mar 
tha  gravely.  "  You  never  know  what  you're  up 
against.  For  instance,  if  you're  tellin'  a  fella  love 
his  neighbor  like  himself,  that's  all  right,  only  you 
wouldn't  be  countin'  on  his  bein'  one  o'  the  kind 
thinks  he's  a  little  tin  god  on  wheels.  Bein'  as  he 
was  that  sort,  you'd  be  tellin'  'm  make  a  graven  image 
of  his  neighbor,  which  he'd  be  constantly  fallin'  down 
before'm,  an'  worshippin'  'm,  like  a  heathen  idol. 
You  can  take  it  from  me,  tellin'  people  what  they'd 
ought  to  do  is  a  delicate  job — too  fine  for  the  likes 
of  Martha  Slawson.  But  I'd  jus*:  as  liefs  tell  you 
what  you  hadn't  ought  to  do,  one  o'  which  is,  lie 
awake  grievin'  over  spilled  milk  that's  past  an'  gone. 
You  mustn't  lug  your  mistakes  along  with  you,  every 
place  you  go,  like  they  was  a  basket  o'  dirty  clo'es. 
Now  lots  besides  laundryesses  has  dirty  clo'es  to 
wash,  believe  me.  But  if  you  pack'm  up  respectable 
in  nice,  clean  wrappin'  paper,  with  a  stout  string, 
or  a  decent  telescope  bag,  nobody'll  be  the  wiser,  an* 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  107 

your  neighbors  won't  objec'  sittin'  beside  you  in  the 
cars.  It's  when  you  force  your  dirty  clo'es  under 
the  noses  of  the  other  passengers,  an'  make'm  uncom 
fortable,  they've  a  kick  comin'.  No,  if  I  was  you 
(beggin'  your  pardon  for  the  liberty)  I  wouldn't  tell 
Dr.  Ballard  a  thing  'twouldn't  be  a  pleasure  to'm  to 
hear.  I  worked  for  a  lady,  Mrs.  Sherman,  an'  she 
used  ta  wait  to  do  things  for,  what  she  called — now, 
do  you  believe  me,  I  can't  remember  the  name  of 
it!  It  was  some  kind  o'  moment.  She  talked  about 

it  frequent.  The — the — sy "  Martha  racked 

her  brains  laboriously. 

"  Could  it  possibly  have  been  the  psychological 
moment?  "  suggested  Miss  Crewe. 

'*  The  very  one !  "  Mrs.  Slawson  took  her  up 
triumphantly.  "The  sykeylogical  moment!  Mrs. 
Sherman  was  dead  stuck  on  it.  She  used  to  talk  to 
her  brother,  Mr.  Frank  Ronald,  about  the  sykey 
logical  moment,  till  you'd  think  it'd  stop  the  clock. 
Now  if  you  know  what  a  sykeylogical  moment  is, 
an'  reco'nize  it  when  it  comes  along,  why,  you  can 
take  it  from  me,  that'll  be  a  good  chance  for  you 
to  give  the  doctor  the  letters  in,  but  not  before." 

Katherine  laughed.  "  I'm  sure  you're  right,  Mrs. 
Slawson,"  she  said.  "  I'll  wait  for  the  psychological 
moment.  And  I'll  wash  my  soiled  linen  alone,  too. 
You've  given  me  a  lot  of  good  advice.  I'm  much, 
much  happier  than  I  was  before  you  came." 

"  Well,  good-night  then,  an'  God  bless  you !  "  said 
Martha,  rising.  "  Now  I'll  go  back  to  my — other 
childern." 


io8  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

Halfway  between  Crewesmere,  and  the  main  road, 
she  came  to  a  standstill. 

"  Hello  !  "  exclaimed  Dr.  Ballard.  "  What  are 
you  doing  so  far  from  home  at  the  witching  hour 
of  eight  o'clock?  It  looks  suspicious.  Don't  you 
think  you'd  better  stand  and  deliver?  " 

Martha  beamed,  as  she  always  did  at  sight  of 
those  she  liked. 

"  I'll  stand,  all  right,  all  right,  sir,  but  you  can 
search  me  for  anything  to  deliver.  My  husban'  he 
went  to  New  York  this  mornin',  an'  before  he  went, 
with  all  my  worldly  goods  I  he  endowed,  accordin' 
to  Scripture,  as  Mrs.  Peckett  says." 

"Ho!  Slawson's  gone  to  New  York,  has  he?" 
Dr.  Ballard  exclaimed.  "  Well,  I'm  off  for  Boston, 
myself,  to-morrow.  I'm  on  my  way  now  to  tell — 
Madam  Crewe." 

Martha  nodded. 

"  Certaintly  you  are.  You'll  find  Miss  Katherine 
on  the  back  porch,  if  you  hurry.  But  the  ol'  lady 
makes  her  close  the  house  at  nine  sharp,  so  you've 
not  much  time  to  waste  on  me.  Good  luck  to  you, 
sir.  A  safe  journey,  an'  quick  return." 

The  doctor  chuckled  as  she  left  him. 

"  That  woman's  a  case!  "  he  said  to  himself,  but 
under  the  stimulus  of  her  suggestion  he  hurried  his 
steps. 

"Going  to  Boston?"  Katherine  repeated,  her 
brows  contracting  in  a  troubled,  triangular  way 
which  always  gave  a  touching,  childlike  look  to  her 
fine  eyes.  "Isn't  that  rather  sudden?  You  didn't 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  109 

tell  me  anything  about  it  this  afternoon — down 
Cherry  Lane." 

"  No,  I'd  not  made  up  my  mind  then.  The  resolve 
came  later." 

"You'll  return?" 

"  Oh,  yes.  Very  soon,  if  I  get  what  I'm  going 
after.  Less  soon,  if  I  don't." 

Katherine  turned  her  face  away. 

"  That  sounds  mysterious.  But  I  remember  you 
like  mysteries." 

"  '  Sure  I  do,'  as  Mrs.  Slawson  would  say.  I  like 
mysteries  for  the  fun  of  clearing  them  up.  It's  to 
clear  up  a  mystery  I'm  going  to  Boston." 

Katherine  withheld  the  question  on  her  lips. 

"  You  don't  ask  what  mystery." 

"  If  you  wanted  me  to  know,  you'd  tell  me." 

"  Well,  then — I'm  going  to  discover  the  secret  of 
me  life.  In  other  words,  I'm  going  to  see  if  I  can 
get  a  line  on  my  grandfather — the  unfortunate  gen 
tleman — no,  of  course  he  couldn't  have  been  a 
gentleman,  because  he  was  a  bailiff ! — the  unfortunate 
beggar  who  got  himself  disliked  by  his  employer, 
and  Madam  Crewe.  Personally,  I've  no  social  use 
for  defunct  forbears.  It's  a  bit  curious,  because  I'm 
a  Bostonian.  But  professionally  I'm  all  right  on 
them.  They  have  their  uses  scientifically.  If  my 
grandfather  had  a  bug — I  mean  germ  (disease  or 
vice  germ)  I  needn't  necessarily  inherit  that  par 
ticular  insect,  but  there's  no  denying  that  if  it  happens 
along,  I'm  more  open  to  infection,  than  a  fellow 
whose  grandad  hadn't  specialized  as  an  entomologist. 


no  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

I've  a  notion  I'd  like  to  read  my  title  clear.  So  I'm 
going  to  Boston  to  dig  up  dead  deeds — in  both  senses, 
and  see  what  I  have  back  of  me." 

"  I'd  much  rather  see  what  I  have  ahead,"  Kath- 
erine  laughed  mirthlessly. 

Dr.  Ballard's  chin  went  up  with  a  jerk. 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  afraid  of  what's  before  me.  I'm 
willing  to  stand  and  face  the  future.  If  a  fellow's 
straight  goods  on  his  own  account,  he  has  nothing 
to  fear.  He'll  win  out,  somehow.  But  I  wouldn't 
care  to  look  forward,  if  I'd  lied,  or  was  a  coward, 
or  taken  what  belonged  to  some  other  fellow,  or 
had  any  other  sort  of  dirty  rag  of  memory  trailing 
after  me.  You  never  can  tell  when  such  a  thing  will 
trip  you  up.  I  say,  you're  not  cold  this  broiling 
night,  are  you?  " 

"No.     Why?" 

"  You  shivered." 

"  Did  I  ?  It  makes  me  nervous  to  hear  you  talk 
about  '  dirty  rags  of  memory.'  I  didn't  suppose  any 
one  lived  who  hadn't  regrets.  I  know  /  have." 

"  No  doubt.  I  can  imagine  what  for.  I'm  talking 
of  real  offenses.  The  sort  of  thing  Madam  Crewe 
hints  at  in  connection  with  my  grandfather.  By 
Jove,  I  wonder  what  the  poor  old  duffer  was  guilty 
of.  Perhaps,  to  put  it  euphemistically,  he  appropri 
ated  funds  not  his  own — swiped  from  your  great 
grandfather's  till.  Seriously,  that's  no  joke !  I  can 
imagine  that  even  if  a  chap  didn't  care  much  about 
his  family-tree,  it  might  be  a  rather  scorching  reflec 
tion  to  know  you'd  descended — fallen — from  a  rotten 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  in 

apple  of  a  thief,  or  something.  You'd  be  forever 
looking  for  some  taint  of  it  to  crop  out  in  you.  I 
confess,  it  wouldn't  rejoice  even  my  democratic  soul. 
But  that's  what  I'm  going  out  for  to  discover.  So, 
when  next  you  see  me,  perhaps  you  won't." 

Katherine's  hand  went  toward  him  in  an  impulse 
too  strong  to  resist. 

"  You  know  better  than  that,"  she  said  in  a  voice 
not  wholly  steady. 

Dr.  Ballard's  large,  firm  grasp  closed  about  her 
slender  trembling  fingers. 

"  I  know  better  than  that,"  he  repeated  gravely. 
"  But  there's  something  else,  not  your  friendship,  I 
can't  be  so  confident  of.  When  I  come  back,  if 
everything's  all  right,  as  I  believe  it  will  be,  I  hope 
you'll  be  kind  to  me,  and  set  my  heart  at  rest  about 
that  too." 

Katherine  could  not  answer.  After  a  moment  of 
silent  waiting,  the  doctor  gently  released  her  hand. 

"  I  met  Mrs.  Slawson  as  I  came  along,"  he  said 
in  his  usual  manner.  "  She's  a  trump,  that  woman. 
The  most  normal  human  creature  I've  ever  met." 

"  Her  English  isn't  normal,"  Katherine  said,  try 
ing  to  control  the  helpless  trembling  that  was  shaking 
her  from  head  to  foot. 

"  She's  an  impressionist.  That's  what's  the 
matter  with  Hannah ! — I  should  say,  Martha.  She 
gets  and  produces  her  effects  in  the  large.  She 
doesn't  trouble  with  details.  After  all,  I  wonder  if 
we'd  like  her  better,  given  the  possibility  of  making 
a  grammarian  of  her." 


ii2  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

Katherine  smiled. 

"  She  told  me,  the  other  day,  that  she  was  being 
made  over.  She  mentioned  the  people  concerned 
in  it,  and  the  different  things  they  were  making  her 
over  into.  I  don't  recollect  that  grammarian  was  in 
the  list." 

"  If  the  rest  succeed  as  well  in  their  efforts  as 
I  would  in  mine,  if  I  attempted  to  make  a  Lindley 
Murray  of  her,  I  don't  think  we  need  worry.  She'll 
progress  along  her  own  lines.  But  she's  not  various. 
You  can't  make  a  complex  organism  out  of  an  ele 
mental  creature  like  Mrs.  Slawson,  any  more  than 
you  could  make  a  contemporaneous  '  new  woman  ' 
out  of  Brunnhilde." 

"  Fancy  Martha  mounted  on  a  celestial  steed,  bear 
ing  the  souls  of  dead  heroes  to  Walhalla !  " 

Dr.  Ballard  laughed. 

"  Well,  I  can  tell  you  this,  if  she  saw  'twas  for 
the  good  of  the  souls,  not  the  celestial  steed,  nor  the 
dead  heroes,  nor  Walhalla  itself,  would  faze  her.  If 
you  ever  should  need  some  one  to  stand  by  in  an 
emergency,  I  couldn't  think  of  a  better  than  Martha 
Slawson.  I  hope  you'll  remember  that,  when  I'm 
gone." 

A  moment,  and  he  was  gone,  had  turned  abruptly, 
and  left  her  without  even  so  much  as  good-by. 

Katherine  bent  her  head  to  look  down  at  the  hand 
he  had  held,  on  which  presently  two  tears  plashed. 

"  She'll  shut  me  off  from  that,  too,"  she  mur 
mured  bitterly.  "  She'll  shut  me  off  from  that  too — 
if  she  can  I " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"OAY,   mother,"   Francie   called  in   through   the 

^  kitchen  screen-door,  "  Miss  Claire,  she  wants 
you  to  come  on  out.  She  says  she  wants  to  show  you 
a  very  olV 

"  A  very  ol'  what? "  inquired  Martha,  turning 
from  her  stack  of  washed  breakfast  dishes,  to  wipe 
her  hands  on  the  roller-towel. 

"  I  d'know.  Only  it's  up  a  tree,  an'  she  wants 
to  show  you  it." 

Martha  went  out  at  once. 

Mrs.  Ronald  was  standing,  not  far  away,  gazing 
intently  up  into  the  branches  of  a  splendid  spruce. 

"  Sh !  "  she  cautioned,  as  Mrs.  Slawson  drew  near. 

"What  is  it?  "  asked  Martha. 

"Look!" 

Martha's  eyes,  taking  the  direction  indicated  by 
Miss  Claire's  pointing  finger,  saw  nothing. 

"Do  you  see?" 

"  No." 

"Quick!  Look!  O— oh!  There  he  goes!  He's 
flown  away !  " 

"  You  mean  that— bird?  " 

"  Yes — a  vireo." 

Mrs.  Slawson's  interest  relaxed.  "  Oh,"  she  said 
with  obvious  disappointment. 

113 


ii4  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"What  did  you  think  I  wanted  to  show  you? 
Didn't  Francie  tell  you  'twas  a  vireo?" 

"  Certaintly  she  did.  But  she  didn't  say  'twas  a 
very  ol'  bird.  Nacherly,  I  kinda  pictured  to  myself 
somethin'  like  Gran'pa  Trenholm,  or  ol'  lady  Crewe 
a-sittin'  up  there,  needin'  immediate  assistance.  I 
thought  to  myself,  that  I  never  have  dumb  a  tree, 
but  if  the  need  was  great,  there's  no  knowin'  what 
I  could  do." 

Mrs.  Ronald  laughed.  "  Oh,  Martha,"  she  said, 
"  I  don't  believe  you'll  ever  make  an  ornithologist." 

"  Without  knowin'  what  that  may  be,"  Mrs.  Slaw- 
son  returned  affably,  "  I  don't  believe  I  ever  will, 
though  I'm  ready  to  try." 

"  Yesterday,  early,  early,  I  got  up,  and  went  out, 
before  any  one  else  in  the  house  was  awake.  I  went 
down  to  the  ravine,  and  oh!  I  wish  you  could  have 
been  there  with  me.  It  was  so  beautiful!  It's  not 
quite  so  early  now,  but,  still,  I  think,  maybe,  we 
might  hear  the  veery.  Do  you  want  to  come?  " 

"  Certaintly,"  said  Martha. 

For  a  time  they  walked  on  in  silence,  through  the 
fragrant  freshness  of  the  new  day.  The  full  chorus 
of  ecstatic  bird  voices  had  somewhat  diminished,  but, 
even  so,  the  air  seemed  set  to  music. 

Mrs.  Ronald  gave  a  great  sigh.  "  Oh,  Martha, 
isn't  it  lovely?  When  I  think  what  happiness  life 
holds,  and  how  beautiful  the  world  is,  I  wonder 
anybody  can  be  discontented,  or  restless,  or  sorrow 
ful." 

Martha  seemed  to  ponder  it. 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  115 

"  Well,  I  guess  a  good  deal  depends  on  the  body," 
she  brought  out  at  length.  "  As  I  make  it  out,  the 
world  it  goes  a-grindin'  'round  steady  an'  sure,  like 
a  great,  big  coffee-grinder.  We  all  got  to  feel  the 
twist,  first  or  last,  before  we're  turned  out  fine 
enough  to  suit.  Some  folks  feels  the  twist  more'n 
others.  I  suppose  it's  nice  to  live  easy,  but  there's 
this  about  not  bein'  too  soft:  you  ain't  likely  to  get 
hurt  so  much.  D'you  remember,  oncet  or  twice, 
when  I  wasn't  by,  you  tried  to  pull  up  the  dumb 
waiter,  down  to  a  Hundred  and  Sixteenth  Street? 
An'  the  coarse  rope,  it  got  splinters  into  your  soft 
little  hands.  Now,  mine's  so  hard  I  could  pull  till 
the  cows  come  home,  an'  nary  a  splinter.  Yes,  it's 
good  not  to  be  too  sens'tive.  If  you  are,  you're 
bound  to  get  all  that's  comin'  to  you,  an'  then 
some." 

"  Do  you  know  anybody  in  particular,  who  is 
feeling  the  twist  especially,  just  now?"  asked  Mrs. 
Ronald  with  interest. 

Martha  nodded.  "  I  was  thinkin'  of  Miss  Kath- 
erine,"  she  replied.  "  She's  right  up  here,  in  the 
middle  of  all  this,  same  as  you  and  yet — you're 
happy,  an'  she  ain't." 

"Could  I  help?" 

"  I  don't  know  yet.  I'm  keepin'  my  eye  out.  If 
I  find  you  can  I'll  let  you  know." 

"Good!"  Claire  approved.  She  walked  on  a: 
step,  then  suddenly  stood  at  attention.  "  Hark !  " 
she  whispered.  "The  veery!  the  Wilson  thrush!" 

Mrs.   Slawson,   halting  too,   strained  her  ear  to 


ii6  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

listen.  At  first  her  face  expressed  only  the  gentle 
interest  of  one  willing  to  be  pleased,  but  presently 
her  eyes  became  luminous,  her  great  chest  rose  and 
fell  to  deep,  full  breaths  of  keenest  appreciation. 

When  the  wonderful  performance  was  at  an  end, 
and  the  veery  had  taken  wing,  Claire  turned  to  her 
silent,  but  questioning. 

Martha  considered  a  moment.  "  When  a  cow  lifts 
up  his  head,  an'  gets  ready  to  bella,  what  with  its 
size  an'  stren'th,  you're  prepared  for  the  worst,  an' 
— you  get  it.  But  when  a  tiny  little  fella,  as  inner- 
cent-lookin'  as  that  very  bird  you  say  is  the  Wil 
son's  thrush,  when  he  sits  up  an'  lets  a  flute-sola  out 
of'm,  as  elegant  as  the  man  in  the  band,  down  to 
the  movies,  well,  it  certaintly  is  surprisin'.  It  some 
how  hits  you  right  in  the  pit  of  the  stummick.  My! 
but  I  bet  the  Wilsons  is  sorry  he  flew  away  on'm." 

Mrs.  Ronald  turned  quickly  to  examine  a  bit  of 
lichen,  decorating  a  tree-trunk  near  at  hand.  When 
she  faced  Martha  again,  her  cheeks  were  quite 
crimson. 

"  Say,  you  hadn't  ought  to  bend  down  like  that  a 
hot  day  like  this,"  cautioned  Mrs.  Slawson.  "  You 
got  a  rush  o'  brains  to  the  head,  I  should  say  blood. 
You  want  to  go  easy  such  hot  wather.  I  guess  the 
walkin'  took  it  out  o'  you." 

"  Oh,  no,"  Claire  assured  her  heartily.  "  I'm  not 
a  bit  tired.  And  I  tell  you  what  I  want  to  do  some 
day  soon.  I  want  to  go  across  the  lake  to  the  South 
cove.  They  say  there's  a  blue  heron  there.  I'm 
crazy  to  see  him." 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  117 

Martha  nodded.  "Well,  if  Lord  Ronald  is 
willin' " 

"  He  says  he'll  take  me  over  in  the  launch,  and 
you  can  go  too,  and  the  children.  We'll  have  a 
beautiful  picnic  some  day  very  soon,  and,  if  you 
thought  she  would  go,  we  might  ask  Miss  Crewe, 
and " 

"  She  couldn't  leave  her  gran'ma  for  so  long. 
P'raps  if  you'd  put  it  off  till  the  fall " 

Miss  Claire  shook  her  head.  "  No,  I'm  going 
now,"  she  said  determinedly. 

"  Well,  I'll  go  any  day  you  say,  then — so  Lord 
Ronald's  willin'.  I  can  help'm  with  the  la'nch.  I 
know  all  about  The  Moth's  machinery,  if  I  don't 
about  the  cow's.  An'  when  it  comes  to  that,  I  could 
milk  all  right,  all  right,  if  I  only  knew  what  to  turn 
on  to  make  the  milk  come.  It's  on  account  o'  the 
cow's  not  havin'  her  gear  arranged  so's  a  body  can 
push  a  button,  or  pull  a  crank  like  a  Christian,  I 
have  so  much  differculty.  You  can  take  it  from  me, 
autos  an'  la'nchs  is  simple  by  comparising.  But 
what's  really  on  my  mind  to  say  is,  any  mornin'  you 
wish  to  see  your  red  herrin',  just  say  the  word,  an' 
I'll  take  you,  though  I  tell  you  frank  an'  honest,  if 
I  was  you,  beggin'  your  pardon  for  the  liberty,  I'd 
stay  on  dry  land  myself,  these  days,  an'  not  be 
botherin'  my  head  over  delicatessens,  which  you  can 
get'm  sent  up,  canned,  by  Park  an'  Tilford  any  day, 
with  your  next  order." 

"Mother!    Mother!" 

Francie's  shrill,  childish  voice  announced  her  but 


ii8  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

a  second  before  she  herself  appeared  around  the 
tangle  of  bushes  hedging  the  mouth  of  the  ravine. 

"  Mother,  mother!  "  she  repeated,  even  after  she 
saw  the  familiar  form  she  sought. 

"Well?" 

Martha  spoke  calmly,  undisturbed  either  by  the 
child's  heated  face  or  manner. 

"  Mother — say — Mr.  Ronald,  he  was  over  to  our 
house,  huntin'  for  Miss  Claire.  I  guess  he's  fearful 
worried." 

"  Did  he  say  he  was  worried?  " 

"  No,  he  didn't,  but  he  ast  if  I  seen  her,  an'  he 
said  it  was  past  breakfast-time." 

"Now,  what  do  you  think  o'  that!"  exclaimed 
Martha.  "  Francie's  a  little  woman,  ain't  you, 
Francie?  She  knows,  when  a  gen'lman  thinks  it's 
past  meal  time,  it's  up  to  ladies  to  get  a  move  on." 

Claire  laughed.  "  I'll  go  at  once,"  she  returned 
obediently. 

As  Martha  and  Francie  made  their  slow  way  back 
to  the  Lodge,  Francie  caught  hold  of  her  mother's 
hand  in  a  sudden  access  of  childish  affection. 

"  Say,  mother,  I'm  glad  I'm  your  little  girl,  in 
stead  of  anybody  else's,"  she  brought  out  impul 
sively. 

'  Thank  you,  thank  you,  sir,  she  sayed.  Your 
kindness  I  never  shall  forget!  '  I  return  the  compli 
ment,"  Martha  announced  with  much  manner. 

"  Mother,  why  does  God  want  His  name  to  be 
Hallow?" 

"  I  didn't  know  He  did." 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  119 

"  Yes,  He  does.  At  the  beginning  of  the  Lord's 
prayer,  it  says,  '  Hallow  would  be  thy  name.'  Don't 
you  remember?  " 

"  Certaintly  I  do,  now  you  mention  it.  But  if  you 
ask  me  why,  Robin,  I  got  to  give  in,  I  can't  tell  you." 

"  I  thought  mothers  knew  everything,"  Francie 
said  pensively.  Martha's  response  was  prompt. 

"Well,  be  this  an'  be  that,  they  do.  Takin' 
mothers  all  together,  they  certaintly  do.  But,  each 
one  has  her  own  speciality,  an'  if  you  ask  me  ques 
tions  about  God,  I  tell  you,  truly,  I  ain't  got  the 
answer,  like  I  would  have  if  I'd  been  to  college,  an' 
belonged  to  the  lemon-eye,  same's  Miss  Claire.  On 
the  other  hand,  /  may  know  things  she  don't,  about 
other  matters  nearer  home.  You  never  can  tell." 

"  Cora  says  you  don't  know  what's  stylish.  She 
says  our  clo'es  are  awful  plain." 

"Now,  what  do  you  think  o'  that!  So  Cora 
says  I  don't  know  what's  stylish.  Well,  if  7  don't 
know  what's  stylish,  I  don't  know  who  does,  seein' 
I  was  in  an'  out  o'  the  toniest  houses  in  New  York 
City,  an'  was  personally  acquainted  with  their 
dresses  an'  their  hats.  That  same  Cora  is  called 
after  one  of  the  stylishest  ladies  ever  you  saw,  Mrs. 
Underwood,  which  she  is  dead  now,  but,  when  she 
was  alive,  looked  like  a  duchess.  An'  you,  your 
self,  are  called  after  her  daughter,  Miss  Frances, 
who  married  a  1'yer,  Judge  Granville,  but  could  'a' 
had  the  pick  o'  the  land.  Never  fear,  I  know  what 
stylish  is.  Only,  I  know  the  differnce  between  ladies' 
stylish  an'  ladies1 -maid's  stylish.  I  seen  both.  Style's 


120  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

one  thing.  Loud's  another.  I  want  my  childern  to 
be  seen  but  not  heard." 

"  Mother,  are  you  sorry  Ma's  gone  away  for 
good?  She  told  Cora,  'fore  she  went,  that  you 
didn't  know  she  ain't  comin'  back,  but  she  ain't. 
She  said  her  heart  was  broke  with  the  quiet 
up  here.  She  said  she's  goin'  to  live  with  Uncle 
Dennis  after  this,  or  Uncle  Andy,  where  it's  lively, 
an'  there's  more  comin'  an'  goin'." 

Mrs.  Slawson  suffered  the  full  significance  of 
Francie's  revelation  to  sink  into  her  consciousness, 
before  she  attempted  to  reply. 

"  Well,  well,"  she  said  at  last,  with  an  air  of 
brave  resignation,  "  so,  Ma's  gone  away  for  good, 
has  she?  An'  she  didn't  want  for  me  to  be  breakin' 
my  heart  with  the  news  o'  it.  It  certaintly  is  a  shock 
an'  no  mistake.  But  a  body  must  do  the  best  she 
can,  when  she  can't  do  no  differnt.  I'll  try  to  bear 
up  under  it,  Francie,  much  as  I  mourn  my  loss.  In 
this  life  we  got  to  go  about  with  a  smilin'  counte 
nance,  no  matter  what  our  private  sorras  are.  It 
won't  do  to  let  the  world  see  your  sufferin'.  The 
world  has  troubles  of  its  own.  By  the  way,  I  wonder 
if  Sammy's  got  back  from  takin'  the  mornin's  milk 
to  Madam  Crewe's  yet?" 

Not  only  had  Sammy  got  back,  but  he  was  the 
bearer  of  news. 

"  Say,  mother,  they  got  comp'ny  to  oF  lady 
Crewe's.  A  gen'lman,  he  come  up  with  a  bag.  In 
a  rig,  from  over  to  Burbank.  The  fella  drove  the 
rig,  he  was  comin'  back  our  road,  an'  he  saw  me, 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  121 

an'  he  says :  '  Say,  bubby,  jump  in  an'  I'll  carry  you 
a  ways,'  an'  I  did,  an'  he  did." 

"  My,  my,  but  ain't  you  lucky?  To  get  a  free 
ride  so  early  in  the  mornin'.  That  was  a  kind  ac'  to 
do,  wasn't  it?  Now,  it's  up  to  you  to  return  the 
compliment.  One  good  turn  deserves  another. 
Keep  your  eye  out  for  that  young  fella,  Sammy,  so's 
if  he  goes  past  again,  on  his  way  back  to  fetch  ol' 
lady  Crewe's  comp'ny  an'  carry'm  to  the  station, 
you  can  call  me,  an'  I'll  give'm  a  glass  o'  cold  lemon 
ade  to  cool'm  off." 

"  He  ain't  comin'  back.  The  comp'ny  ain't  from 
Burbank.  He's  from  New  York.  He  come  up  last 
night  on  the  Express,  an'  he's  goin'  back  when  he's 
ready,  but  he  don't  know  when  he'll  be  ready,  so  he 
couldn't  tell  the  fella  with  the  rig.  An'  the  fella 
with  the  rig,  he  couldn't  wait  anyhow.  He  has  to 
go  back  to  Burbank,  an'  then  'way  out  another  way, 
miles  an'  miles,  to  get  a  party  wants  to  catch  a  north 
bound  train  goes  out  the  middle  o'  the  night.  One 
o'clock  it  goes  out,  the  fella  said.  An'  if  they  don't 
catch  it,  there  ain't  another  till  to-morra  mornin',  so 
they  got  to  catch  it.  The  fella  with  the  rig  tol'  me, 
he  guessed  ol'  lady  Crewe's  comp'ny  was  a  lawyer. 
He  said  he  could  tell  by  the  cut  of  his  jib.  What's 
the  cut  of  his  jib,  mother?  " 

Mrs.  Slawson  shook  her  head.  "  That's  a  lazy, 
shif'less  way  o'  learnin'  knowledge,  Sammy,  to  be 
askin'  it  off'n  parties  that  had  to  work  hard  them 
selves  to  get  it.  Since  we  got  that  grand  dick- 
shunerry-book  Lord  Ronald  give  your  father,  there 


122  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

ain't  no  excuse  for  any  of  us  not  knowin'  things  any 
more.  Lord  Ronald  said :  '  The  dickshunerry  habit 
is  a  good  thing.  When  you  don't  know  a  word,  look 
it  up.'  " 

"How  do  you  spell  jib?" 

The  glance  Mrs.  Slawson  cast  on  Sammy  sent  him 
off  flushed  with  shame  at  having  exposed  an  ignorance 
so  dense. 

At  Crewesmere,  meanwhile,  the  newcomer  was 
calmly  eating  his  breakfast,  Katherine  doing  the 
honors  with  what  grace  she  could. 

Mr.  Norris  was  no  stranger  to  her.  She  knew  him, 
had  always  known  him,  in  fact,  as  her  grandmother's 
man  of  affairs,  a  lawyer  of  repute.  While  she  had 
no  cause  to  distrust  him,  the  fact  that  he  was  in  a 
position  to  advise  in  questions  closely  affecting  her 
self,  affairs  she  was  kept  in  total  ignorance  of,  gave 
her  a  feeling  of  resentment  toward  him,  as  toward 
one  who,  voluntarily  or  not,  held  an  unfair  advan 
tage. 

"  See  he  has  a  good  breakfast,"  her  grandmother 
had  directed.  "  Let  him  eat  and  smoke  his  fill,  but 
don't  send  him  up  to  me  with  any  unsatisfied  cravings. 
A  man's  mind  is  a  little  less  apt  to  be  vacant  if  his 
stomach  is  full." 

During  the  succeeding  long  hours  of  the  forenoon, 
the  two  were  closeted  in  Madam  Crewe's  sitting- 
room.  Katherine  could  hear  the  incessant,  low 
drone  of  their  voices  as  she  sat  on  the  shaded 
veranda,  trying  to  employ  her  mind  so  it  would 
not  dwell  on  the  enervating  heat  and  the  fact  that 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  123 

now,  at  this  moment,  her  grandmother  might  be 
creating  conditions  that  would  irrevocably  cripple  her 
future  and  she  was  powerless  to  prevent  it. 

At  luncheon-time  Madam  Crewe  summoned  Eu 
nice  Youngs. 

"  While  Miss  Crewe  and  the  gentleman  are  at 
table,  I  want  you  to  go  to  Mrs.  Slawson's  and  tell 
her  I  must  see  her  at  once.  Understand?  Madam 
Crewe  says  she  must  see  Mrs.  Slawson  at  once.  Say, 
she's  to  come  in  that  motor-car  Mr.  Ronald  gives 
her  and  her  husband  the  use  of.  Say,  Madam  Crewe 
wishes  her  to  take  a  gentleman  to  the  railroad  station 
in  time  for  the  five-forty-five  train.  Have  you  brains 
enough  to  repeat  that  straight?  Or,  shall  Miss  Kath- 
erine  write  it  down  for  you?" 

"  Oh,  grandmother,"  expostulated  Katherine, 
when  Eunice  had  gone  to  "  tidy  up  "  for  her  er 
rand,  "  I  don't  think  we  can  order  Mrs.  Slawson 
about  like  that.  She's  done  a  lot  for  us,  already, 
but  we  have  no  claim  on  her,  and  to  send  for  her 
to  come,  in  all  this  heat,  and  bring  her  motor,  and 
take  Mr.  Norris  to  the  station — it's  exactly  as 
if " 

"  My  dear,  don't  bother  your  head  over  what 
doesn't  concern  you.  Slawson  and  I  understand  each 
other — which  is  more  than  you  and  I  do,  I'm  afraid," 
the  old  woman  pronounced  with  biting  distinct 
ness. 

The  meal  was  barely  over  when  Martha  arrived. 

"  Now,  Slawson,"  Madam  Crewe  greeted  her, 
"  I've  sent  for  you  on  business,  so  I  want  you  to  stop 


124  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

looking  benevolent,  if  you  can,  and  attend  to  what 
this  gentleman  has  to  say." 

"  Yes'm,"  said  Martha. 

Mr.  Norris  adjusted  his  eye-glasses  with  profes 
sional  precision.  "  Have  you  ever  had  any  experi 
ence  with  the  law,  or  lawyers?  "  he  asked,  regarding 
her  steadfastly  through  his  polished  lenses. 

"  Certaintly,  I  have.  Oncet,  I  worked  out  for  a 
lady  who  got  a  divorce  off'n  her  husband,  on  what 
they  call  statuary  grounds,  an'  the  first  she  knew, 
he  up  an'  off,  an'  married  the — statue.  He  was  a 
railroad  magnet.  The  kind  draws  more'n  more  to'm, 
all  the  time.  So,  o'  course,  the  law  never  so  much 
as  laid  a  finger  on'm.  An'  about  two  years  ago,  my 
little  girl,  she  got  run  over  by  a  auta,  but,  though 
Mr.  Frank  Ronald  he  tried  to  get'm  to  pay  us  a 
little  somethin'  for  our  trouble,  we  ain't  seen  a  cent 
o'  money  yet.  Oh,  yes.  I  know  about  the  law!  " 

"  I  mean,  do  you  understand  that  when  you  are 
brought  as  a  witness  before  the  law,  you  are  held 
responsible  for  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  noth 
ing  but  the  truth?" 

Martha  cogitated.  "  No,  sir.  I  can't  say  I  do, 
that  is,  did.  I  never  knew  the  law  had  so  much  to 
do  with  truth  before.  But,  if  you  say  so,  I'm  willin' 
to  take  your  word  for  it." 

Mr.  Norris  pulled  a  long  upper  lip. 

"  My  client,  Madam  Crewe,  has  called  you  here 
for  two  purposes.  First,  she  wishes  you  to  be  pres 
ent  whilst  I  ask  her  granddaughter  a  few  important 
questions.  Second,  you  and  the  maid — a — Eunice 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  125 

Youngs,  are  to  write  your  names  as  witnesses  upon 
a  certain  paper  I  have  drawn  up  for  my  client.  Are 
you  willing  to  act  for  Madam  Crewe  in  these  mat 
ters?  " 

Martha  shot  a  quick,  inquiring  glance  at  Kath- 
erine.  The  girl  nodded  in  response. 

"  Yes,  sir  1  "  Mrs.  Slawson  answered  promptly. 

"  Then,  see  that  you  charge  your  mind  seriously 
with  what  you  have  undertaken.  Your  memory  must 
be  exact.  Now,  Miss  Crewe " 

Katherine  inclined  her  head,  smiling  faintly.  But 
Martha  noticed  she  was  very  pale. 

"  Your  grandmother  would  like  to  know,  from 
your  own  lips,  the  extent  of  your  acquaintance  with 
Dr.  Ballard,  the  physician  who  has  been  in  attend 
ance  on  Madam  Crewe  since  her  late  illness." 

Katherine  hung  fire  a  moment,  while  the  blood 
slowly  mounted  to  her  cheeks,  her  temples. 

"  My  grandmother  forbade  me  to  have  anything 
whatever  to  do  with  Dr.  Ballard,"  she  parried  the 
question. 

"  Did  you  obey  her  injunction? — Attend,  Mrs. 
Slawson !  " 

"No!" 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  didn't  think  she  had  any  right  to  control  me 
so." 

"Not  when  she  intimated  there  were  reasons?" 

"  She  told  me  things  about  Dr.  Ballard — his  peo 
ple,  rather,  but  I  didn't,  and  I  don't,  consider  them 
reasons.  She  has  no  proof,  or,  if  she  has,  she  cer- 


126  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

tainly  hasn't  presented  it.  I  don't  consider  it  worthy 
of  notice  when  a  person  says  things  about  another 
which  are  not  backed  up  by  proof." 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,  then,  you  do  know  Dr. 
Ballard,  in  spite  of  your  grandmother's  prohibi 
tion?" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  know  him  very  well?  " 

"  Quite  well." 

"  My  next  question,  Miss  Crewe,  you  will  answer 
notwithstanding  its  peculiarly  personal  and  intimate 
character,  because  (I  am  authorized  to  tell  you)  upon 
your  answer  important  issues  hang.  If  Dr.  Ballard 
asks  you  to  marry  him,  is  it  your  intention  to  accept 
him?" 

For  a  long  moment  there  was  no  sound  in  the 
room,  except  such  as  came,  muted,  from  out-of- 
doors,  and  the  leisurely  ticking  of  the  tall  clock  in 
the  corner. 

Then  Katherine,  rising,  impetuously  faced  the 
lawyer  and  Madam  Crewe. 

"  I  will  not  answer  that  question,  no  matter  what 
issues  hang  on  it,"  she  retorted  hotly. 

"  Miss  Crewe,  I  have  your  interest  at  heart,  believe 
me.  I  strongly  advise  you  to  answer." 

11  No." 

"  You  mean  you  will  not  accept  him." 

"  I  mean  no  such  thing.  I  mean  I  refuse  to  an 
swer." 

"Why?" 

"  You  ought  to  know.     The  question  is — indeli- 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  127 

cate.  When — if  Dr.  Ballard  says  he  wishes  to  marry 
me,  it  will  be  time  enough  for  me  to  answer — him." 

"  He  has  already  said  so." 

Miss  Crewe  started.  "  What  do  you  mean?  "  she 
demanded  imperiously. 

"  Dr.  Ballard  has  already  told  your  grandmother 
he  wishes  to  marry  you.  Madam  Crewe  would  like 
to  know  your  intentions." 

"  I  wish  my  grandmother  had  chosen  a  different 
way  of  obtaining  my  confidence,"  the  girl  broke  out, 
almost  broke  down.  "  It  seems  very  strange  to  me 
that  she  should  choose  such  a  method  as  this.  It 
seems — almost — disgraceful." 

The  old  woman,  sitting  erect  in  her  high-backed 
chair,  did  not  attempt  to  defend  herself. 

The  lawyer,  ignoring  Katherine's  outburst,  con 
tinued  his  dry-voiced  interrogation. 

"  You  would  accept  him?  " 

"  If  Dr.  Ballard  wishes  to  marry  me,"  the  girl 
answered  with  marked  quiet  of  voice  and  manner, 
in  strong  contrast  to  her  outbreak  of  a  moment  ago, 
"  if  Dr.  Ballard  wishes  to  marry  me — I  will  marry 
him." 

"  In  opposition  to  your  grandmother?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  oppose  my  grandmother,  but  if 
she  tries  to  spoil  my  life  for  the  sake  of  a  groundless 
prejudice  I  will — yes — I  will  marry  him  in  opposi 
tion  to  her." 

"  Think  well,  Miss  Crewe.  Take  your  time.  An 
swer  cautiously.  If  you  were  told  Dr.  Ballard  is 
a  struggling  young  doctor,  with  no  present  means  of 


128  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

support,  to  speak  of,  and  a  perfectly  problematic 
future.  If  you  were  told  that  he  would  never  be 
able  to  provide  you  with  more  than  a  bare  living 
income •" 

"  I  would  marry  him." 

"  If  you  were  told  that,  in  case  you  do  so,  your 
grandmother  would  divert  her  property  from  you 
(as  she  has  a  perfect  legal  right  to  do)  and  dispose 
of  it  elsewhere ?  " 

"  Still — I  would  marry  him." 

"  Nothing  would  dissuade  you?  " 

"  Nothing." 
'  The  inquisition  is  over." 

It  was  the  old  woman  who  spoke.  Her  face  was 
as  impassive  as  ever,  but  Martha  Slawson  noticed 
that  her  tiny,  emaciated  fingers  clutched  the  arms 
of  her  chair  with  a  vise-like  grip. 

"  For  all  the  world  like  a  bird  I  seen  last  Spring," 
Martha  mused,  "  which  somethin'  had  broke  its 
wing,  an'  its  claws  was  holdin'  on  fierce,  for  dear 
life,  to  the  branch  o'  the  bush  it  was  clingin'  to — as  if 
that'd  save  it!  " 

"  May  I  go  now?" 

As  Katherine  made  the  appeal,  she  turned  toward 
her  grandmother,  but  her  eyes  were  kept  resolutely 
averted. 

Mr.  Norris  raised  a  detaining  hand.  "  One  mo 
ment,  please.  I  assume  you  entertain  no  doubt  of 
Madam  Crewe's  mental  competency?  That  she  is 
of  sound  mind,  capable  of  acting  rationally  on  her 
own  behalf?  That  any  will  and  testament  she  might 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  129 

choose  to  execute  at  this  time  would  be  above  sus 
picion  of  mistake,  fraud,  or  undue  influence?" 

For  a  moment  Katherine  seemed  to  consider. 
Then  her  lip  curled. 

"  If  you  mean,  am  I  likely  in  the  future  to  con 
test  any  will  my  grandmother  may  now  make  to  my 
disadvantage,  I  say  no.  I  will  never  dispute  her 
course,  whatever  direction  it  may  take.  All  I  ask 
is  that  she  will  not  dispute  mine.  I  am  only  sorry 
that  they  seem  to  diverge  so  completely.  I  am  sick 
of  the  name  of  money.  I  would  say  I  am  sick  of 

the   sight   of  it — but   I   have   never  seen   any ' 

with  which  parting  thrust,  the  girl  turned  on  her 
heel,  and  left  the  room. 

She  went  none  too  soon,  for  the  moment  the  door 
closed  upon  her,  her  self-control  gave  way,  and  she 
groped  stumblingly  to  her  own  chamber  blinded  by 
tears,  choking  back  the  sobs  that  were  in  themselves 
a  humiliation. 

The  three  she  had  left,  were  silent  when  she  had 
gone,  until  Mr.  Norris  drew  an  important-looking 
sheet  from  under  a  mass  of  papers  at  his  elbow,  and 
addressed  Mrs.  Slawson. 

"  As  a  general  rule  I  strongly  advise  you,  or  any 
one,  against  placing  your  signature  to  any  instrument 
which  you  have  not  previously  read  and  do  not  fully 
understand.  In  this  case,  however,  there  is  abso 
lutely  no  harm.  Please  call  the  other  witness." 

Martha  took  a  step  toward  the  door. 

"  If  I  put  my  writin'  on  that  paper,  it  won't  mean 
I'm  injurin' — anybody?  "  she  demanded  firmly. 


130  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  You  have  my  word  as  to  that." 

"  I'd  never  sign  it,  if  it  was  to  hurt  Miss  Kath- 
erine." 

'  Your  placing  your  signature  there  cannot  affect 
Miss  Crewe's  interests  one  way  or  the  other." 

Martha  summoned  Eunice  Youngs,  and  the  two, 
in  their  best  manner,  literally  with  great  pains,  pro 
ceeded  to  affix  their  names  as  witnesses  to  the  last 
will  and  testament  of  Idea  Stryker  Crewe. 


CHAPTER  IX 

TT  was  late  one  evening  at  the  end  of  the  week, 

when  Sam  came  back,  to  Martha's  surprise,  alone. 

"  Ma  just  wouldn't  leave  the  city,"  he  explained. 
"  She's  staying  at  Dennis's  now,  but  Sarah  told  me 
she  couldn't  keep  her  above  a  week  or  so,  at  the 
longest.  She  said  Andy,  or  Hughey,  or  one  of  the 
girls  would  be  better  able  to  look  after  her  than 
Dennis  and  herself,  who  have  all  they  can  manage 
paying  off  on  their  house  in  Yonkers,  and  the  children 
to  educate  besides.  Sarah  was  quite  short  with  me 
on  account  of  Ma.  She  said  she  was  real  put  out. 
We'd  no  business  leaving  an  old  woman,  Ma's  age, 
away  from  the  country  such  hot  weather,  especially 
when  we  were  just  getting  on  our  feet  now,  and 
were  well  able  to  give  her  a  home  without  feeling 
it." 

Martha  smiled  tolerantly.  "  There'd  be  no  time 
o'  year'd  suit  Sarah  for  takin'  any  more  trouble  than 
she's  got  to,"  she  observed,  pouring  her  husband's 
tea. 

"  It's  a  nice  little  place  they've  bought,"  Sam  in 
formed  her,  between  bites  of  cold  ham  and  potato. 
"  Dennis  travels  down  and  up  every  day,  which  is, 
what  you  might  call  a  stunt,  but  he  has  the  satisfac 
tion  of  knowing  the  roof  over  his  head  is  his  own." 

Martha  set  an  ice-cold  cup-custard  at  Sam's  plate. 
131 


132  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  From  Yonkers  to  the  Battery  Is  a  kind  o'  long 
stretch,  but — where  there's  a  will  there's  a — sub-way, 
I  s'pose.  Would  he  be  with  the  same  steamship 
company  he  was  with,  since  I  first  knew'm,  I  won 
der?" 

"  Yes,  and  they  gave  him  a  raise  last  month.  He's 
doing  all  right,  Dennis  is.  You  ought  to  see  the 
way  Sarah's  got  the  house  fixed.  They  pay  off  for 
the  new  furniture  every  month,  so  they  don't  feel  it, 
Sarah  says." 

"  Well,  Sarah  mayn't  feel  it,  but  you  can  take  it 
from  me,  /  certaintly  would,  in  her  place,"  Martha 
observed.  "  Gettin'  things  on  the  excitement  plan, 
would  wrack  my  health.  I  hate  the  thought  o'  owin'. 
Payin'  for  a  dead  horse  never  did  appeal  to  me,  as 
Mrs.  Sherman  says.  How's  Andy  doin'  ?  " 

"  Andy  was  succeeding  great,  but  something  went 
wrong,  somehow,  all  of  a  sudden,  and  his  scheme  fell 
through.  He  explained  it  to  me,  but  I  forgot  the  par 
ticulars,  to  tell  the  truth.  He'll  be  on  his  feet  again 
in  no  time.  Andy  always  was  the  smart  one  of  the 
family." 

Martha  ruminated.  "  Wouldn't  you  wonder  how 
anythin'  gets  done  in  this  world,  when  nothin'  any 
body  ever  tries  seems  to  succeed?  Is  Nora  as 
gallus-lookin'  as  ever?  Or  is  she  holdin'  in  her 
horses  some,  now  her  husban's  kind  o'  down  an'  out, 
for  the  time  bein'  ?  " 

"  Nora's  just  the  same,  as  far  as  I  can  see.  Our 
Nora  says  Nora-Andy  is  distroying  Andy  with  her 
extravagance.  She  says  the  way  she  dresses,  alone, 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  133 

it's  no  wonder  he  is  always  in  and  out  of  some  get- 
rich-quick  scheme,  that'll  land  him  in  the  poor-house, 
or  worse,  if  he  don't  look  out.  But  then,  our  Nora 
never  did  have  the  appearance  of  Nora-Andy,  I  must 
say  that,  if  I  am  her  own  brother.  Our  Nora  is  kind 
of  sharp,  and  she  looks  it." 

"  Well,  I  guess  marriage'll  bevel  some  of  the  edges 
off'n  her,  all  right,  all  right,"  said  Martha.  "  Were 
you  surprised  when  you  heard  she  was  keepin'  com 
pany  with  McKenna?" 

"  Yes,  I  was.  I  never  thought  Nora'd  marry  now 
— at  her  age." 

"  Nora  always  wanted  to  marry,  an'  when  she 
saw  her  chance  she  grabbed  it  by  both  horns." 

Sam's  serious  expression  relaxed  a  little.  "  That 
sounds  as  if  McKenna  was  the  devil  and  all  of  a 
fellow.  He's  not  that  at  all,  and  he  certainly  ain't 
much  to  look  at." 

"  Oh,  well,"  Martha  responded,  "  nobody  but 
her'll  have  a  call  to  look  at'm  much,  oncet  he's  mar 
ried." 

"  I  told  her  I  thought  she  was  taking  a  risk, 
throwing  up  a  good  place  she'd  been  in,  for  so  many 
years,  parlor-maid,  to  live  out  general-housework 
with  a  stranger,"  said  Sam.  "  I  thought  that  was 
a  joke.  But  it  made  her  mad.  She  said,  '  God  knows 
it's  no  joke!  '  She  said  she  had  as  much  of  a  right 
to  live  her  life  as  I  have,  which  of  course  it's  true. 
She  said  '  every  dog  has  its  day! ' 

'  True  for  you.  So  he  has,  just  like  s'ciety  ladies. 
But  that  ain't  to  say  there'll  be  anybody'll  come. 


134  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

An'  I  sometimes  think  there's  more  dogs,  'n  days, 
anyhow." 

Sam  looked  up.  "  Say,  mother,  you  ain't  down 
hearted,  are  you?  " 

"No.  Why?  What'd  make  me  downhearted,  I 
should  like  to  know?  " 

"  I  just  thought  you  might  be,"  her  husband  an 
swered.  "  I  never  heard  you  speak  that  doubting 
kind  of  way  before.  And,  we've  no  call  to  think  ill 
of  the  world,  with  all  the  luck  that's  come  to  us." 

"  Certaintly.  An'  if  luck  don't  stay  with  us,  itself, 
it  won't  be  because  we  ain't  set  her  a  chair,  an'  done 
every  mortal  thing  we  know  of  to  make  her  com 
fortable.  I've  no  kick  comin',  nor  ever  had.  I  like 
life  all  right,  the  hard  part  along  with  the  soft  part. 
If  you  didn't  have  the  one  you  wouldn't  know  how 
to  relish  the  other.  But,  speakin'  o'  Nora,  I  never 
looked  to  see  her  sportin'  a  'finity  of  her  own,  I  can 
tell  you  that !  " 

"  '  'Finity  '?"  questioned  Sam. 

"  Genteel  for  fella,"  Martha  answered.  "  I  often 
heard  Mrs.  Sherman  speakin'  of'm.  You  can  take  it 
from  me,  I  never  looked  to  see  that  same  Nora  get 
a-holt  o'  one." 

"  Nor  I.  And  I  said  as  much  to  Ma.  Ma  told 
it  back  to  Nora,  and  Nora  was  as  mad  as  could  be. 
She  said  if  it  came  to  that,  she  didn't  see  as  she  was 
the  worst-looking  one  in  the  family,  when  a  body 
counted  in  what  some  of  us  had  married." 

"  Meanin'  me,"  observed  Martha  appreciatively. 

"  She  said  she  '  didn't  see  why  folks  should  be  so 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  135 

monstrous  surprised  that  she  got  a  husband.  Every 
Joan  has  her  Jack.'  The  very  words  she  said." 

"  Sure  they  have.  But  only  it  ain't  told  what 
kind  o'  Jack.  So  did  Balaam  have  a  jack,  if  she 
wants  that  kind.  But,  p'raps  McKenna  is  a  prize- 
package.  We  don't  know.  I  wonder  will  he  take 
kindly  to  Ma?" 

Sam  shook  his  head.  "  One  of  the  first  things  he 
told  me  was,  '  We  couldn't  look  to  him  to  give  my 
mother  a  home.  He  had  troubles  of  his  own.'  It 
stirred  me  up  so,  I  almost  lost  my  temper.  I  said 
I  didn't  look  to  him  to  give  my  mother  a  home.  If 
he  gave  my  sister  one,  now  he'd  contracted  to  marry 
her,  I'd  be  glad." 

"  Why,  Sam,"  said  Martha  looking  at  him  with 
mock-reproach,  "  I  wonder  at  you,  I  do  so !  To 
speak  up  that  fierce !  You  hadn't  ought  to  be  so 
violent,  an'  use  such  strong  language  to  a  party  just 
gettin'  ready  to  come  into  the  fam'ly.  It  might 
scare'm  off.  He  must  think  you're  a  dretful  bully." 

"  Nora  told  Ma,  before  I  left,  that  Ma  was  fool 
ish  to  stay  back  in  New  York.  She  said  she  and 
McKenna,  starting  out,  young  married  folks — 

"  God  save  the  mark!  "  murmured  Martha. 

"  She  said  they  couldn't  offer  her  a  home,  much 
as  they'd  like  to.  But  Ma  said  her  heart  was  broke 
with  the  country.  She  wanted  to  live  in  the  city 
where  something  was  going  on." 

"  It's  one  thing  what  you  want,  and  another  what 
you  must.  Poor  Ma !  I'm  sorry  for  her.  When  she 
comes  back  she'll  know  a  thing  or  two  more'n  she 


136  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

does  now.  We'll  have  to  be  kind  o'  gentle  with  her, 
to  make  up.  But  come  on  now,  Sam.  If  you've 
et  all  you  can,  I'll  do  my  dishes,  while  you  lock  up, 
an'  then  we  can  go  to  bed.  You  look  plain  wore 
out" 

"  I'm  glad  to  get  home,"  Sam  answered  her,  and 
though  he  said  no  more  Martha  understood  him. 

Long  after  he  was  asleep  she  lay  awake  in  the 
white  moonlight,  thinking.  "  Down  home,"  she  knew 
it  was  stifling.  Sam  had  told  her  that  the  hot  wave 
was  breaking  all  records  for  intensity  and  duration. 
And  yet,  somehow,  her  soul  yearned  for  the  stretches 
of  sun-softened  "  ashfalt  "  with  its  smell  of  mingled 
dust  and  tar,  for  all  the  common  city  sounds  and 
sights  amid  which  she  had  been  born  and  bred;  all 
the  noise  and  commotion  that  spelt  Home  for  her. 
She  could  understand  Ma's  feeling,  and  her  heart 
softened  to  the  poor  old  woman. 

"  It's  all  right  up  here,"  she  admitted  to  herself. 
"  I  like  the  folks  first  rate,  such  as  they  are  an'  what 
there  is  of'm,  only  they  ain't  what  a  body  is  used 
to.  I  never  see  nicer  parties  than  the  Trenholms, 
an'  the  Coleses,  an'  the  Moores.  That  time  Hiram 
Black's  house  burned  down,  if  every  mother's  son 
of'm  didn't  turn  out  an'  lend  a  hand.  Got  the 
Blacks  fixed  up  fine  an'  dandy,  in  no  time,  in  a  new 
place,  with  what  they  called  *  donations.'  Down 
home  you  wouldn't  find  your  neighbors  givin'  you 
furnitur',  an'  bricky-braw  things  like  that,  not  on 
your  life  !  An'  when  you'd  paid  the  insurance  money 
itself,  the  Company'd  kick  before  it'd  give  you  the 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  137 

price  o'  your  losin's.  An'  yet,  I  know  how  Ma  feels. 
If  young  Luther  Coles  had  'a'  had  the  fever  down 
home  he  had  up  here  last  fall,  they'd  a-yanked'm 
away  from  his  own  flesh  an'  blood  to  the  pest-house. 
An'  here  his  mother  was  let  take  care  of'm,  an'  the 
meals  was  got  by  the  neighbors,  which  she  hauled'm 
up  in  a  basket,  three  times  a  day,  an'  et'm  hot  an' 
fresh  from  the  oven,  without  havin'  to  raise  her 
hand,  only  take'm  out  from  under  a  clean  napkin. 
You'd  go  hungry  a  long  time  in  New  York  City,  be 
fore  the  folks  acrost  the  air-shaft  from  you,  would 
know  your  boy  was  dyin'  on  you,  much  less  sneak 
in  a  bite  an'  a  sup,  from  time  to  time,  through  the 
dumb-waiter.  But — all  the  same — /  know  how  Ma 
feels." 

Martha  had  reached  this  stage  in  her  musings 
when  a  faint  knock  sounded  on  the  door  below.  She 
waited,  listening.  The  knock  was  repeated.  As 
quietly  as  she  could,  which  was  not  very  quietly,  she 
slipped  from  her  bed,  threw  on  her  light  cotton 
kimono,  which  always  lay  ready  at  hand  in  case 
of  emergency,  and  hastened  downstairs,  leaving  Sam 
asleep  and  snoring,  worn  out  by  the  city  heat,  his 
sense  of  responsibility  in  connection  with  Mr.  Ron 
ald's  commissions,  and  the  long  day's  journey  home, 
with  its  fatiguing  delays  and  tiresome  changes. 

She  shot  the  bolt  back,  turned  the  key  with  reso 
lute  hand.  She  could  not  imagine  what  had  happened 
that  would  account  for  this  unusual  disturbance,  but 
whatever  it  might  be,  she  braced  herself  to  meet  it. 

On  the  doorstep  stood  the  shivering  figure  of  a 


138  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

girl,  clad  only  in  her  night-dress.  She  was  shivering 
with  excitement,  not  chill. 

"  Mrs.  Slawson,"  she  managed  to  bring  out,  be 
fore  words  became  impossible,  drowned  in  the  tor 
rent  of  her  tears  and  sobbing. 

Martha  placed  a  motherly  hand  about  the  frail 
shoulders. 

"  Come  now,  come  now  I  Don't  cry  like  that. 
You'll  shake  yourself  to  pieces.  I  don't  know  what's 
the  matter,  but  it'll  be  all  right,  anyhow,  never  fear. 
You're  Ellen  Hinckley,  ain't  you?  I  think  I  seen 
you  a  couple  o'  times  at  church." 

As  Martha  talked,  she  drew  her  visitor  into  the 
house,  automatically  locked  and  bolted  the  door,  and 
settled  the  girl  in  Sam's  chair  in  the  sitting-room. 

The  moonlight,  streaming  in  through  the  windows, 
made  the  place  almost  as  light  as  day,  but  for  some 
purpose  of  her  own,  Martha  was  about  to  strike  a 
match,  when  Ellen  Hinckley  stopped  her  with  a 
quick  cry. 

"No,  no!  Don't  do  it!  I've  run  away.  I've 
left  my  mother's.  My  stepfather'll  follow  me  when 
he  finds  I'm  gone." 

She  drew  a  long  painful  breath,  then  panted  out 
her  story  in  short,  labored  gasps. 

"  I've  never  had  a  home.  You  mayn't  believe  it, 
but  mother  don't  care  a  scrap  about  me,  except  for 
the  work  I  can  do.  I've  tried  and  tried  for  years 
to  bear  it,  but  it's  got  to  be  too  hard.  I  can't  live 
that  way  any  longer.  You  know, — Mr.  We- 
dall ,?» 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  139 

Martha  nodded.     "  The  pasture?  " 

"  Yes,  he's  my  minister.  He  knows  all  about  me. 
He  told  me  to  do  my  best,  but  if  the  time  came  when 
I  just  couldn't  bear  it  another  minute  I  might  go. 
He  said  he  couldn't  help  me  run  away,  because — 
because •" 

"  Certaintly  he  couldn't!  "  said  Martha. 

"  But  he  said,  if  ever  I  had  to  do  it,  the  Lord 
would  raise  up  some  one  who  could.  Mother's  never 
liked  me.  I've  not  been  happy  a  minute  since  my 
father  died.  He  wasn't  happy.  He  had  no  peace 
of  his  life.  He  used  to  tell  mother  she'd  get  her 
come-uppance  some  day,  and  she's  got  it  now,  for 
Buller,  that's  her  second  husband,  he  beats  her.  He's 
got  her  money  and  mine  too,  what  father  left  us, 
and  he's  afraid  I'll  law  him,  now  I'm  of  age  and 
can.  I  tried  to  run  off  yesterday,  but  he  caught  me 
and  took  away  my  clothes,  and  locked  me  in  my 
room.  I  had  some  money  I'd  got  hold  of.  'Twas 
my  own — and  when  he  caught  me,  and  he  and 
mother  stripped  me  and  locked  me  up,  I  held  on  to 
it,  all  through,  though  he  beat  me  black  and  blue 
with  his  belt-strap." 

She  spread  her  poor  little  trembling  palm,  dis 
closing  a  fistful  of  crumpled  bills. 

"See?  And  here's  where  he  beat  me — and  she 
stood  by  and  let  him !  " 

As  she  spoke,  the  girl  drew  back  the  coarse  night 
dress  from  her  breast,  displaying  shoulders  and  back 
seamed  across  with  cruel  wales. 

Martha  drew  in  her  breath  shudderingly,  shield- 


140  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

ing  her  eyes  with  her  elbow  in  a  quick,  instinctive 
defensive  gesture. 

"  I'd  know  you  speak  the  truth  without — that!  " 
she  said. 

"  After  they  left  me,  and  locked  me  in — when  I 
could  think — I  remembered  what  Mr.  Wedall  said 
about  the  Lord  raising  up  help  for  me,  and  it  made 
me  mad,  for  there  was  no  one  to  lift  a  hand  for  me. 
And  then,  all  at  once,  somehow,  you  came  into  my 
mind.  I  saw  you  help  a  dog  once,  nobody  else  would 
touch.  D'you  remember?  All  the  rest  were  afraid. 
They  said  he  might  be  mad.  But  you  said,  '  Of 
course  he  ain't  mad.'  And  you  took  him  up,  and 
took  him  home,  and — you  weren't  afraid." 

"  No,  I'm  not  afraid,"  said  Martha. 

"  After  you  came  into  my  mind  I  never  rested 
till  I  found  a  way  to  get  out.  I  waited  till  every 
thing  was  quiet.  They'd  gone  to  bed.  Then  I 
managed  it — through  the  window — down  the  grape 
vine  trellis — I " 

Martha  made  her  way  to  the  corner  cupboard. 
"  I'll  fix  you  up  with  arnica  an'  water  inside  and 
out,"  she  explained.  "  An',  while  I'm  doin'  it,  you 
tell  me  what  you've  planned." 

"  Nothing.  I've  planned  nothing.  Duller  says 
I'm  looney.  Perhaps  I  am.  I  can't  seem  to  think." 

"  Have  you  got  any  folks  anywheres  ?  I  mean, 
on  your  father's  side?" 

"  I've  an  uncle.  Father's  brother.  But  he  lives 
in  Montreal." 

"Montreal!     Where  would  that  be,  I  wonder?" 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  141 

"  In  Canada.    Up  north." 

Mrs.  Slawson  bound  on  her  soothing  compresses 
in  silence.  Suddenly  she  paused,  alert,  listening. 
Then,  quick  as  a  flash,  she  caught  her  visitor  by  the 
sleeve,  drew  her  back  in  to  the  entry  and  pushed  her 
into  a  small  closet  under  the  stairs. 

"  Hush !  I  hear  a  horse.  Don't  you  breathe  till 
I  come  an'  tell  you." 

A  moment  later  she  was  lying  in  bed,  as  still  as 
though  she,  like  Sam,  were  fast  asleep  and  dreaming. 

Presently  Sam  stirred,  sat  up  drowsily,  and  lis 
tened. 

"  Say,  mother,  you  asleep?  " 

No  answer. 

A  voice  from  below  in  the  garden  called  up 
hoarsely : 

"Hullo,  there!" 

"What's  wanted?"  demanded  Sam. 

"  I'm  Duller,  from  Milby's  Corners.  My  wife's 
daughter  has  wandered  off  in  the  night.  I'm  out 
hunting  for  her,  to  take  her  home.  She  ain't  all 
there  in  the  upper  story.  I  thought,  maybe,  she'd 
come  in  here.  The  last  I  saw  of  her,  she  was  making 
this  way.  She's  in  her  night-shift.  I  could  see  her 
plain  as  day,  far  ahead  of  me." 

Sam  was  so  obviously  but  just-awakened,  that 
Duller  from  Milby's  Corners  turned  his  horse's  head, 
as  if  to  make  a  quick  departure,  when  Mrs.  Slawson, 
yawning,  leaned  over  the  rail  of  the  sleeping-porch 
and  spoke. 

"Say,  wait  a  minute.    The  poor  thing!     Wan- 


142  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

derin'  about  in  the  night, — an'  her  light-headed — 
away  from  your  pertectin'  love  an'  care!  Ain't  it 
awful !  My  husban'  an'  me'll  get  up,  an'  be  dressed 
in  no  time,  for  we'd  like  to  help  her,  if  we  can,  poor 
creature!  In  the  meantime,  seein'  you  ain't  found 
her  here,  I  s'pose  you'll  be  goin'  further.  Out  in 
her  night-clo'es !  My !  I  wonder Say,  Sam- 
do  you  see  somethin'  white  flitterin'  along  towards 
the  south — down  the  valley  road  d'rection?  Seems 
to  me  7  do!  " 

Sam  thought  maybe  he  did. 

Buller  kicked  a  heel  into  his  horse. 

"G'long!  I'm  off  down  the  valley  road.  I 
bet  'tis  her.  I'll  have  her  yet,  the  d — the  poor 
dear!" 

The  instant  he  was  gone,  Martha  dragged  Sam 
into  the  house. 

"  Quick !  Dress  you !  An'  go  down  get  the  auta. 
I  have  the  girl  hid  in  the  entry  closet.  I'm  goin'  to 
take  her  out  o'  harm's  way,  which  is  that  brute 
beast's." 

"  But,  Martha "  remonstrated  Sam. 

"  Sam  Slawson,  do  as  I  tell  you !  Or  you'll  have 
to  shove  us  into  Burbank  in  your  present  gob,  which, 
believe  me,  it  ain't  bewitchin'.  You  can  take  it  from 
me,  lad,  I'm  goin'  to  catch  that  north-bound  express 
that  leaves  Burbank  at  one  o'clock  this  night,  which, 
if  we  don't  make  it,  there  ain't  another  till  to-morra 
mornin'.  So  we  got  to  make  it,  or  I'll  know  the  rea 
son  why !  " 

Impelled  by  a  motive  power  so  irresistible,  Sam 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  143 

dressed  and  went  about  his  business  without  ventur 
ing  another  word. 

Martha  clothed  herself  in  the  brief  intervals  when 
she  was  not  attending  Ellen  Hinckley,  giving  her 
bread  to  eat,  milk  to  sip,  enveloping  her  in  garments 
gathered  from  everywhere,  anywhere,  a  conglomerate 
assortment  that  would  have  been  grotesque  if  it  had 
not  been  touching. 

"  No  one'll  mind  your  looks,"  Martha  reassured 
her.  "  Just  you  sit  tight,  an'  keep  your  own  counsel, 
an'  not  a  dog'll  bark  after  you.  Ma's  veil  tied  down 
over  Cora's  hat  is  quite  stylish,  an',  be  this  an'  be 
that,  you've  got  as  good  a  motorin'  costume  as  any. 
They  all  look  like  Sam  Hill.  So  now,  I  guess,  we 
might  be  movin' !  " 

"  It's  a  crazy  scheme,"  Sam  whispered  in  his  wife's 
ear,  as  she  bent  to  him  to  deliver  last  instructions, 
while  he  was  cranking  up.  "  Suppose  a  tire  bursts?  " 

"  It  ain't  goin'  to,"  she  assured  him  with  perfect 
confidence. 

Out  of  the  gate  they  sped,  then  along  the  hard, 
white  high-road.  Even  Martha's  garrulous  tongue 
was  stilled. 

The  world,  bathed  in  this  silver,  ethereal  light, 
seemed  unfamiliar,  remote,  the  sky  to  have  with 
drawn,  in  infinite  cool  reaches,  beyond  the  burning 
little  tragedy  they  were  enacting.  After  a  considera 
ble  period  of  silence,  Martha  turned  to  ask  Ellen 
Hinckley  if  she  were  comfortable.  The  poor  crea 
ture  had  fallen  asleep,  lulled  by  the  motion  of  the 
car,  the  soft  night  air,  but  more  than  all  by  the 


144  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

sense  of  blessed  security  under  Mrs.  Slawson's  pro 
tecting  wing. 

Martha  was  about  to  nudge  Sam  to  look,  when  he 
turned  a  three-quarters  profile  toward  her. 

"  I  hear  something  back  of  us.    Can  you  see?  " 

"  No.  If  I  stir  she'll  wake.  You  don't  think  it's 
him?" 

"  It  may  be.  Joe  Harding's  place  is  down  the 
valley  road.  He  has  a  car.  Buller  mayn't  suspect 
we're  helping  the  girl,  but  when  he  didn't  find  her 
in  that  direction,  Harding  may  have  offered  to  take 
a  hand  in  the  game." 

"  Would  any  man  o'  conscience  help  a  fella  like 
Buller,  who  all  the  neighborhood  knows  the  life 
he's  led  this  poor  creature — him  an'  the  mother, 
which  she's  a  disgrace  to  the  name." 

"  No,  but  Harding  ain't  a  man  of  conscience,— 
not  so  you'd  notice  it,  as  you  say.  If  Buller's  out 
on  the  still-hunt,  Harding'd  join  in  for  the  pleasure 
of  the  chase." 

"  Put  on  power,"  directed  Martha. 

Again  that  swift,  silent  progress  through  the 
night. 

Once  Sam  whispered:  "  I  guess  we  were  stung.  I 
can't  hear  anything  back  of  us  any  more,  can  you?  " 

"  No,"  said  Martha.  "  But  stung  or  no  stung, 
keep  a-goin'.  We  ain't  takin'  no  risks." 

Ellen  Hinckley  slept  fitfully,  but  even  in  her 
waking  moments  she  was  not  aware  of  the  dangers 
the  others  had  feared. 

"  Let  her  rest,"  Martha  meditated.     "  After  she's 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  145 

made  a  clean  getaway,  she'll  have  all  that's  comin'  to 
her,  in  the  line  o'  excitement  an'  strain.  I  don't 
believe'm  when  he  says  she  ain't  all  there  in  the 
upper  story.  But  that's  not  meanin'  I  think  she's 
furnished  as  handsome  as  some.  She  may  have  all 
her  buttons,  an'  yet  not  be  the  brainiest  party  I  ever 
come  in  contract  with.  Why  didn't  she  up  an'  open 
her  mind  an'  give  Duller  a  piece  o'  it  long  ago? 
There's  many  things  a  married  woman's  got  to  shoul 
der,  God  knows,  but  chasm^ment,  hot  off'n  his  grid 
dle,  as  you  might  say,  not  on  your  life,  even  a  mar 
ried  woman  needn't  stand,  much  less  a  unmarried 
maiden-girl.  It  ain't  decent.  If  a  man  oncet  took 
the  strap  to  me,  I'd  fix'm  so's  the  doctor'd  have  to 
hunt  for  the  buckle  o'  his  belt  behind  his  internal 
workin's,  in  back  among  his  spine.  An'  I'd  be 
proud  o'  the  job." 

When  they  were  within  about  five  miles  of  Burbank 
Sam  gave  a  low  whistle. 

"  I  was  wonderin'  if  you  heard  it  too,"  Martha 
responded  promptly.  "  Firstoff  I  thought  'twas  my 
imagination,  but  it  ain't.  Somethin'  certaintly's  fol- 
lain'  along  in  our  tracks." 

"  The  first  was  a  false  alarm.  So  may  this  be," 
said  Sam. 

"  Sure.  But,  could  you  speed  up  some?  Just  for 
luck?" 

Presently  Martha  heard  another  sound. 

"  Now,  Ellen,"  she  announced  firmly,  "  you 
got  to  brace  up.  Cryin'  won't  do  you  a  mite  o' 
good." 


146  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  He's  following.  I  know  it.  He's  got  a  car. 
He'll  get  me  and  take  me  back  and — kill  me !  " 

"  He  will  if  you  don't  do  as  I  say.  But  not  on 
your  life  he  won't,  if  you  mind  your  aunt  Martha. 
Firstoff,  have  you  got  your  money  safe  an'  handy?  " 

"Yes.     Here." 

"  That's  right.  See  you  don't  lose  it,  when  I  assist 
you  onto  the  train.  There  mayn't  be  much  time  to 
spare,  but  if  the  brakeman's  any  good  on  the  catch, 
I'm  up  to  handin'm  a  neat  throw,  an'  between  us 
you'll  get  there  I  " 

"  But  my  ticket " 

"  This  is  no  time  for  thinkin'  o'  tickets.  Let  the 
conductor  be  glad  if,  after  the  train  is  on  its  way, 
you  got  the  price  o'  one  o'  them  long,  floatin' 
streamer-effec's  he  carries  in  his  vest-pocket,  to  amuse 
'mself  punchin'  holes  in  it." 

They  sped  into  Burbank  under  all  the  power  Sam 
dared  put  on. 

"  Thank  God!  "  sobbed  Ellen  Hinckley. 

But  when  they  reached  the  station,  no  train  was 
in  sight,  the  place  was  virtually  deserted. 

Sam  drew  up  beside  the  platform  and,  for  a  mo 
ment  sat  quite  still,  evidently  cogitating. 

"  No  such  thing !  The  train  ain't  gone !  "  said 
Martha,  as  if  he  had  maintained  it  had.  "  It's  only 
five  minutes  to  one." 

"  It  might  have  been  ahead  of  time." 

"  Did  you  ever  know  one  was?  "  inquired  his  wife. 

He  got  out  and  made  his  way  to  the  waiting-room. 
A  moment  and  he  was  back. 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  147 

"  There's  been  delays  back  along  the  road.  The 
train's  two  hours  late.  It  won't  be  here  till  three, 
or  after." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  o'  that!  "  said  Martha. 

The  next  instant  she  was  dragging  Ellen  Hinckley 
into  the  waiting-room,  through  it,  and  on  into  the 
telegraph-operator's  booth. 

"  Say,  young  fella,"  she  addressed  him  bluntly, 
"  this  party  here's  in  danger  of  her  life.  Me  an' 
my  husban'  is  gettin'  her  out  o'  harm's  way,  which 
he's  hot  on  our  track.  He'll  be  along  any  minute. 
Think  o'  your  mother,  if  you  ever  had  one.  An'  if 
not,  think  o'  some  other  female  o'  the  same  sect, 
only  younger.  Lend  a  hand,  anyhow,  to  help  us 
out,  will  you?  " 

The  youth  eyed  Mrs.  Slawson  dubiously. 

"  How  do  I  know ?  "  he  began  objecting. 

"  You  don't.  But,  by  the  time  I  get  through  with 
you,  you  will.  Only  this  ain't  the  time,  see?  Come 
now,  step  lively,  like  they  say  in  New  York.  Put 
this  party  away,  out  o'  sight.  No  matter  how 
crampin'  the  place.  An'  be  quick  about  it!  " 

The  young  man  gazed  about  his  booth  helplessly, 
shook  his  head,  then  got  upon  his  feet.  He  drew  a 
key  from  his  pocket,  as  if  acting  under  hypnotic 
suggestion. 

"  I'm  taking  your  word  for  it,"  he  grumbled.  "  If 
it  gets  me  into  trouble ' 

"I'll  get  you  out,"  answered  Martha  confidently. 

Without  further  ado  he  led  them  through  the 
waiting-room,  unlocked  the  baggage-room  door  and, 


148  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

in  the  semi-darkness,  he  and  Martha  walled  their 
captive  in  behind  a  barricade  of  freight  and  baggage. 

"  Try  to  be  contented  till  train-time,"  Mrs.  Slaw- 
son  admonished  Ellen.  "  Don't  you  be  scared.  We 
won't  forget  you,  nor  we  won't  let  your  stepfather 
get  you,  'less  it's  over  this  young-man-here's  dead 
body  an'- 

"  Oh,  I  say!"  objected  the  telegraph-operator 
plaintively. 

Martha  shook  her  head  at  him.  "  I  only  wanted 
to  cheer  her  up,"  she  whispered,  as  they  passed  out 
into  the  waiting-room,  he  locking  the  door  behind 
them. 

Sam  came  forward  to  meet  her. 

"  I  guess  we  had  our  scare  for  nothing,"  he  ob 
served.  "  If  that'd  been  Buller  behind  us,  he'd  have 
got  here  before  now." 

"  Not  if  he'd  had  tire-troubles.  But  prob'ly 
you're  right,"  said  Martha. 

Sam  considered.  "  Then  what's  the  use  of  keep 
ing  the  poor  girl  hid?  " 

"  It  won't  hurt  her.  An'  a  ounce  o'  pervention  is 
worth  a  pound  o'  cure." 

Later  the  telegraph-operator  took  the  trouble  to 
shove  up  his  window  and  address  Martha  through 
it.  His  tone  was  loftily  supercilious,  ironically 
facetious. 

"Nothing  doing!  You've  been  stringing  me,  I 
guess !  "  he  sagely  opined. 

Mrs.  Slawson  regarded  him  blandly. 

"  Certaintly.     My    husban'    an'    me,    we    come 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  149 

twenty-five  miles  streakin'  through  the  night  on  pur 
pose  to  do  it.  Such  a  precious  jewel  of  a  fella  as 
you,  anybody'd  want  to  string'm,  for  safe-keepin', 
so's  he  wouldn't  fall  down  an'  roll  away  an'  be 
lost  in  a  crack  o'  the  floor." 

The  telegraph-operator  grimaced. 

"  Say,  now,  no  joke !  You  said  you'd  tell  me  the 
whole  story,  so  I'd  know  what  I  was  in  for.  I  ain't 
hankering  to  be  called'  down  by  the  Company  for 
outdoing  my  duty." 

Mrs.  Slawson  smoothed  her  dress  over  her  knees. 
"  Come  an'  sit  on  my  lap,  sonny-boy,  an'  I'll  tell 
you  all  about  it.  Only  bein'  so  young,  an'  havin' 
such  a  tender  conscience  with  you,  it  might  keep  you 
awake  in  your  crib  nights.  Did  you  ever  see  weels, 
as  thick  as  my  thumb,  on  the  white  skin  of  a  young 
girl's  shoulders?  Well,  I  could  turn  back  the  waist 
o'  that  one  in  there,  an'  show  you  such.  Raised  by 
the  leather-belt  o'  her  mother's  second  husban', 
which  they're  perfect  ladies  an'  gen'lmen,  o'  course, 
bless  their  hearts.  They  will  be  after  her  like  mad, 
when  they  know  she's  given'm  the  slip.  Good  Ian' ! 
If  young  fellas  was  reely  young  fellas  nowadays, 
you'd  be  glad  of  the  chancet  to  pour  some  o'  the 
Widow  Cruse's  oil  on  a  poor  ill-used  child's  troubled 
waters.  An'  not  be  thinkin'  o'  yourself  all  the  time 
— if  it'd  harm  you  to  help  her,  or  if  the  Comp'ny 
would  objec'." 

The  youth  regarded  her  with  level  eyes. 

"  You  can  count  on  me,"  he  said.  "  I'm  with  you 
in  this,  no  matter  what." 


150  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  Good  boy!  "  said  Martha. 

The  hours  dragged  wearily  along.  One  by  one 
disappointed  travelers  who  had  strayed  off  to  kill 
time  at  the  hotel,  returned  to  meet  their  delayed 
train. 

Martha  had  advance  information  concerning  its 
coming,  the  lad  at  the  wire  furnishing  it  gratuitously. 

"  It'll  be  along  now  in  five  minutes,"  he  said, 
"  and  I've  put  the  baggage-man  wise,  so  he's  ready 
to  help  you  get  her  off,  as  fine  as  silk,  even  if— 

Just  then  Martha  saw  Sam  approaching.  Though 
his  step  and  manner  were,  to  all  outward  appear 
ances  as  usual,  she  instantly  knew  something  was 
amiss. 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  asked  calmly. 

"  He's  come.  Him  and  Harding  are  here.  They 
haven't  seen  me  nor  the  car  yet.  I  put  that  beyond, 
under  a  shed,  where  it  wouldn't  be  conspicuous.  But 
we  can't  dodge  them  long,  and— 

''  This  way,  ma'am !  "  summoned  the  baggage 
man,  touching  Martha's  elbow.  "  I  got  the  young 
lady  ready  for  you — and  the  train's  coming." 

'  Take  care  of  yourself,  Sam,"  Martha  cautioned 
him,  following  her  leader. 

The  train  thundered  up.  Before  it  had  fairly 
come  to  a  halt,  Buller  sighted  Sam.  He  made  a 
rush  toward  him,  brandishing  a  menacing  arm. 

"  Keep  cool,"  advised  Sam.     "  And  keep  off !  " 

"You've  got  the  girl!"  Buller  roared.  "We 
know  you  have,  from  them  as  saw  you  coming  over 
here,  three  in  the  car.  Where  is  she?  " 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  151 

"  Find  her,"  said  Sam. 

Buller  turned  to  Harding.  "  You  handle  him, 
Joe.  I'll  tackle  the  woman." 

Martha  stood  at  the  baggage-room  door,  as  Buller 
came  pounding  down  the  platform. 

"  Hand  over  that  girl!  "  He  spoke  with  sinister 
calmness. 

"  Certaintly,"  said  Martha.  "  That's  just  what 
I'm  waitin'  to  do." 

The  engine  whistled.  Buller  started  toward  Mar 
tha,  getting  in  the  way  of  the  baggage-man,  who  was 
pushing  a  loaded  hand-truck  before  him.  His  elbow 
sent  Buller  reeling.  In  that  instant,  through  a  maze, 
Buller  saw  Martha  lift  what  had  looked  like  a  piece 
of  burlap-covered  baggage  from  the  truck,  and  toss 
it,  with  sure  aim,  to  the  brakeman  on  the  platform 
of  the  slow-moving  car.  The  brakeman  caught  it 
deftly,  and  set  it  on  its  feet.  The  train  slid  past. 

"  Ellen !  "  Buller  cried.  Then,  turning  on  Mar 
tha,  "  You— devil !  " 

Mrs.  Slawson  bowed  civilly.    "  Same  to  you,  sir." 

"  I'll — I'll  do  you  up  yet.  You're  not  done  with 
me,  not  by  a  long  shot." 

"  I  haven't  a  doubt  o'  it.  I'm  ready  for  you,  any 
time.  Likewise  Mister  Slawson.  Only,  I  advise  you, 
take  it  out  on  me.  My  husband  might  hurt  you  too 
much,  if  he  got  goin'." 

As  they  were  driving  home  through  the  waning 
light,  Sam  told  Martha  he  faintly  remembered  hear 
ing  Ellen's  knock  on  the  door — "  only  he  was  too 
tired  to  get  up." 


152  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  You  were  smart  to  hear  it  through  your  own 
snores,"  she  returned  pleasantly.  "  But  when  we  get 
home,  you  must  turn  in,  an'  take  a  real  sleep.  I'll 
wake  you  when  Buller  comes." 


CHAPTER  X 

R.  BALLARD  had  been  absent  a  fortnight  or 
more,  and  July  was  drawing  to  its  close,  when 
one  afternoon  Katherine  heard  the  sound  she  had 
been  longing  for  all  these  days,  the  familiar  musical 
notes  of  his  motor-horn. 

Looking  ahead  expectantly,  he  spied  her  at  once, 
and  gave  salute,  as  the  car  swept  up  to  the  porch, 
a  silent  military  salute.  Alighting,  he  passed  directly 
upstairs  to  Madam  Crewe's  sitting-room. 

Katherine  followed  after,  drawn  as  if  by  the  sense 
of  something  pending,  something  too  interesting  to 
miss. 

Madam  Crewe  glanced  around  as  the  doctor  en 
tered. 

"  Oho,  so  you're  back,  are  you?  " 

Dr.  Ballard  took  a  chair  without  waiting  to  be 
invited  and  said  lightly,  as  he  seated  himself  facing 
his  patient: 

"  You  speak  the  truth." 

The  old  woman  raised  her  chin.  "  Thank  you, 
young  man.  You  flatter  me !  " 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  came  the  prompt  retort.  "  I 
haven't  come  with  any  such  intention.  I've  come — 
and  I  may  as  well  out  with  it  at  once — I've  come 
to  tell  you  that  I  have  found  the  reason  for  your 
dislike  of  '  the  Ballard  tribe.'  I've  discovered  the 

J53 


154  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

case  you  have  against  us.  I've  been  ferreting  about 
among  my  grandfather's  effects,  and  I've  unearthed 
his  Journal.  Curious,  isn't  it,  that  a  bailiff  should 
have  kept  a  Journal?  " 

Madam  Crewe  deigned  no  response. 

After  a  pause  lasting  several  seconds,  Dr.  Ballard 
continued:  "I  presume  you  would  feel  seriously  af 
fronted  if  I  were  to  take  the  liberty  of  supposing 
you  might  be  interested." 

"  Fudge !     Have  you  the  Journal  there?  " 

"  Yes." 

"You  have  read  it?" 

"  Quite  so." 

"Then  you— know?" 

"  Yes." 

''Well?  And  what  then?  What  are  you  going 
to  do  about  it?" 

"  I  am  going  to  read  my  grandfather's  Journal 
aloud,  now,  here — I  mean,  that  portion  of  it  that 
relates  to  you." 

Madam  Crewe  straightened  to  a  military  stiffness. 
'  You  are  going  to  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  she 
averred  stoutly. 

"  Indeed  I  am." 

"  I'll  not  permit  it  I'll  send  Katherine  from  the 
room." 

11  Oh,  no  you  won't.  You  are  too  just  to  do  that. 
You  have  made  certain  charges  against  my  grand 
father;  now,  the  only  fair  thing,  is  to  give 
him  a  show — to  let  him  state  his  case,  from  his 
side." 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  155 

"  No.  He  wouldn't  tell  the  truth.  He  falsified 
once.  He'd  falsify  again." 

"  You  haven't  proved  it." 

"  You  have  my  word." 

"  Your  word  is  all  very  well,  as  far  as  it  goes. 
But  even  you  would  hardly  claim  that  it  goes  all  the 
way  'round  the  truth,  and  then  tucks  under,  like 
Dick's  hatband.  My  grandfather  has  a  word  too, 
and  I'm  going  to  see  that  he  has  a  chance  to  get  it 
in  edgewise,  and — what's  more,  that  you  listen." 

Madam  Crewe  turned  her  body  stiffly  toward 
Katherine. 

"  Come  here.  Sit  down !  "  she  commanded  auto 
cratically. 

Dr.  Ballard  took  up  his  book,  opening  it  at  an 
obviously  marked  point. 

"  The  first  entry  bearing  any  reference  to  you  or 
yours  was  written  in  1844.  In  the  spring  of  that 
year  he  mentions  going  to  see  one  Squire  Stryker, 
in  connection  with  the  stewardship  of  his  estate.  I'll 
skip  all  the  non-essentials  and " 

"  Skip  nothing.    Since  you  will  read,  read  I  " 

11  Very  well. 

"  '  Boston,  February  6th,  1844.  This  morning 
saw  Squire  Stryker.  He  wishes  to  engage  a  bailiff. 
A  hard  man,  I  judge  him  to  be.  Not  easy  to  please, 
because  he  is  exacting,  arbitrary,  without  judgment 
or  justice.  He  is  ruled  by  passion,  not  principle. 

"  '  Feb.  loth.  I  have  made  my  decision.  For 
good  or  ill,  I  go  to  Squire  Stryker's,  in  New  Hamp 
shire,  to-morrow.' 


156  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  Following  are  several  pages  given  over  to  notes 
and  data  connected  with  the  estate.  Its  acreage,  its 
possibilities,  its  limitations.  Nothing  else.  They 
carry  one  to  April,  and — this: 

"  '  A  strange  thing  has  happened.  No,  not  a 
strange  thing.  The  thing  is  simple,  the  strangeness 
is  in  its  effect  on  me.  There  is  a  lane  hard  by,  called 
Cherry  Lane.  'Tis  part  of  the  estate.  At  this 
season  the  trees  are  in  full  blossom.  I  went  there 
to  estimate  the  probable  yield  of  fruit,  and  the  con 
dition  of  the  trees,  and — underneath  the  white  and 
pink  boughs  stood  a  white  and  pink  maid.  She 
looked  at  me  and  smiled.  She  told  me  she  was 
Squire  Stryker's  daughter.  She  knew  I  was  the  new 
bailiff,  she  said. 

"'April  14.  I  have  seen  the  child  again.  Yes, 
again  and  again.  Many  times,  in  fact.  I  call  her 
child  because  so  indeed  she  seems  to  me,  who  am, 
at  least,  fifteen  years  older.  She  tells  me  she  is 
seventeen.  'Tis  hard  to  believe  for  that  in  stature 
she's  no  higher  than  my  heart,  and  her  eyes  are  as 

open  and  unconscious  as  a  child's  except  when 

But  that  is  my  fancy !  I  am  sure  'tis  my  fancy. 

"'June  i st.  'Tis  many  weeks  since  that  was 
written.  Not  that  I  have  naught  to  say.  Rather, 
too  much.  I  find  I  cannot  set  down  what  is  in  my 
heart.  Idea  Stryker  and  I  are  betrothed! 

"'June  14.  Every  afternoon  towards  sundown 
my  little  sweetheart  and  I  walk  in  Cherry  Lane.  I 
wish  she  had  a  mother.  I  do  not  like  these  clandes 
tine  meetings.  Sometimes  I  doubt  myself.  Not  my 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  157 

love  for  Idea,  God  knows,  but  my  power  to  make  it 
tell  for  her  best  good.  To-day  I  told  her  my  con 
science  troubled  me.  I  am  no  friend  to  untruth  or 
furtive  acts.  Idea  put  on  a  look  of  high  contempt, 
aping  her  father.  She  scowled  at  me,  folded  her 
arms  across  her  bosom  and,  measuring  me  up  and 
down,  in  his  own  manner  to  the  life,  said:  "  Deuce 
take  your  conscience,  sir!  I'll  have  none  of  it." 
Then,  suddenly  changing,  she  clung  to  me  crying, 
u  I'll  have  nothing  but  your  love,  Daniel!  But,  your 
love  I'll  die  to  have,  and  to  hold."  I  let  my  heart 
direct  me  rather  than  my  head,  and  gave  way  to 
her.  But  I  still  feel  the  better  course  would  be  to 
tell  her  father  and  make  an  end  of  this  deceit. 

"  '  'Tis  many  a  long  day  since  I  have  taken  up 
this  book  to  write  in  it.  Now  that  I  do,  'tis  in  a  dif 
ferent  year  and  place.  Yet  I  have  often  thought 
'twas  cowardly  to  shun  the  setting  down  in  black 
and  white  of  what  will  always  be  the  deepest  record 
of  my  heart.  I  have  said  Idea  and  I  were  at  vari 
ance  upon  the  point  of  telling  her  father  what  was 
between  us.  Again  and  again  I  tried  to  tell  her  'twas 
unworthy  of  us  both.  But  she  always  overruled  me. 
I  gave  way.  Then,  one  day  when  I  spoke  of  it,  she 
suddenly  burst  forth  in  such  a  passion  as  I  have 
never  seen.  Poor  child !  'Twas  her  father's  fury, 
but  not,  this  time,  done  in  mimicry.  She  told  me 
she  was  weary  of  being  preached  to  about  the  truth, 
deceit,  and  duty.  She  would  have  me  know  she'd  as 
good  a  sense  of  propriety  as  I.  Nay,  better,  for, 


158  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

after  all,  who  was  I  but  her  father's  servant,  she 
would  like  to  know.  "  How  dare  you  criticise  me?  " 
she  blazed.  u  You  forget  I  am  your  master's  daugh 
ter." 

"  '  I  can  see  her  now,  standing  there  stamping 
her  foot  at  me,  her  eyes  flashing,  her  cheeks  like 
flame.  The  rage  in  her  flared  up,  then  died  down 
as  quickly.  That  was  her  way.  The  heat  in  me  has 
a  different  habit.  It  smolders  and  grows  until  it 
seems  to  freeze  me  with  its  white  intensity.  It  is 
my  bosom-enemy  which  I  am  trying  to  conquer.  I 
had  not  done  it  then.  "  You  are  right,"  I  said.  "  I 
had  forgotten.  I  had  forgotten  everything  except 
that  you  are  the  girl  I  loved,  who  I  thought  loved 
me.  You  have  done  well  to  remind  me  of  my  place. 
I  will  never  forget  it  again,  or  that  you  are  my 
master's  daughter." 

"  '  With  that  I  turned,  and  left  her  standing, 
stunned,  bewildered,  in  Cherry  Lane.  I  could  see 
she  did  not  realize  what  had  happened.  She  thought 
I  would  come  back.  She  waited  for  me.  And  so  I 
did  come  back,  but  not  to  let  her  see  me.  Only  to 
watch  over  her,  that  no  harm  should  befall,  for  the 
spot  was  lonely  and  far  from  the  house,  and  dusk 
was  about  to  fall.  When  the  first  star  showed,  she 
went  home.  I  could  hear  her  crying  softly,  all  the 
way.  She  would  cry,  then  stop  to  dry  her  tears,  and 
call  me  names  through  her  sobbing. 

"  '  There  were  no  more  meetings  after  that, 
though  she  got  in  my  way  more  than  once,  as  I  went 
about  my  duties.  I  knew  very  well  what  she  wanted, 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  159 

but  I  could  not  relent.  What  my  dear  mother  used 
to  call  my  dumb  demon  had  taken  possession  of  me. 
It  would  not  let  me  speak.  Would  not  let  me  write 
to  answer  any  of  the  letters  Idea  sent  me  begging 
me  to  meet  her  when  the  sun  went  down. 

"  '  Then,  one  day,  I  was  summoned  before  the 
Squire.  She  had  told  him. 

"  '  He  was  waiting  for  me  in  his  library,  clad  in 
his  riding-clothes  just  as  he  had  come  from  horse 
back.  He  carried  a  riding-crop.  His  face  was  of 
a  dull  reddish  color,  his  eyes  green.  He  began,  the 
moment  I  entered  the  door,  to  assail  me,  standing 
with  his  back  to  it,  his  legs  planted  wide. 

"'"You  miserable  beggar!"  he  brandished  his 
crop  in  my  face.  "  First,  you  have  the  insolence  to 
make  love  to  my  daughter,  then  you  insult  her  by 
refusing,  when  she  stoops  to  offer  you  her  hand  in 
reconciliation." 

"  '  "  That  is  precisely  the  point,"  I  heard  myself 
say.  "  'Tis  because  she  stoops." 

"  '  The  words  were  no  sooner  out,  than  Idea  was 
clinging  to  me.  "  I'm  not  proud  any  more,  Daniel," 
she  cried.  "  I'll  never  stoop  again.  If  you'll  only 
forgive  me  this  once,  I'll  promise  never  to  vex  you 
any  more.  Please,  Daniel,  please  I  " 

"  '  The  Squire  snatched  her  wrist.  "  Silence !  " 
he  thundered,  and  would  have  swung  her  violently 
aside,  but  I  prevented  it.  I  saw  the  old  look  in  her 
eyes. 

"  c  "  Then  come  with  me,"  I  said,  "  now — this 
hour.  Marry  me  and " 


160  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

'  Her  father  flung  himself  between  us,  when  she 
would  have  come  to  me.  He  swore  he  would  dis 
own  her.  No  shilling  of  his  should  she  ever  get. 
She  should  be  a  beggar — married  to  a  beggar. 

"  '  I  saw  her  shrink.  She  could  not  face  it.  When 
I  saw  that,  I  turned  to  go,  but  the  Squire  stopped  me. 
"  Not  so  fast,  my  fine  fellow !  You've  not  re 
turned  the  letters,  yet.  D'you  think  I'd  let  you  keep 
them,  you  low  dog,  to  use  against  her  fair  name, 
for  a  price?  " 

4 1  had  forgotten  the  letters.  I  turned  to  Idea, 
and  it  was  as  if  I  had  not  seen  her  before,  so  clear 
her  image  stood  out,  now.  She  was  clad  in  some 
flowery  stuff  ("  dimity,"  she  had  once  told  me  'twas) 
with  a  sash  about  her  waist,  and  on  the  sash  a  pocket 
hung  suspended  by  a  strap.  'Twas  to  hold  her 
handkerchief,  but  her  handkerchief  had  to  hold  her 
tears  now — and  the  pocket  hung  empty.  I  went  to 
her  and  held  out  the  letters.  She  would  not  take 
them. 

"  '  "  Here  are  your  letters,"  I  said. 

"  '  Still  she  would  not  touch  them. 

"  *  Her  father  cursed  us  both.  I  felt  my  self- 
control  slipping  from  me.  If  I  let  it  go  to  lay  my 
hand  upon  the  man — God  help  him — and  me.  But 
I  could  not  escape  until  Idea  had  the  letters.  Again, 
she  would  not  take  them.  With  a  quick  movement 
I  thrust  them  in  her  pocket.  She  did  not  seem  to 
understand  what  I  was  doing.  She  thought  I  was 
trying  to  grasp  her  hand,  I  think,  for  she  flung  it 
out  to  me  imploringly.  But  I  only  dimly  saw  that 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  161 

as  I  wheeled  about,  and  so,  off  and  away.  That  day 
I  left  the  place.  Later,  I  learned,  the  Squire  and 
Idea  went  too.  But  before  they  did  so  he  caused 
his  man  of  law  to  follow  me,  again  demanding  the 
letters. 

"  '  "  The  letters  have  already  been  returned,"  was 
all  I  could  say.  "  She  has  them.  I  gave  them  back. 
When  she  would  not  take  them,  I  thrust  them  in 
her  pocket." 

"  '  With  that  the  lawyer  had,  perforce,  to  be  con 
tent.  At  least  he  has  not  troubled  me  since.  So  I 
close  this  book.  A  closed  book,  too,  the  story  of 
my  love.  A  book  I  know  I  must  never  open  if  ever 
I  am  to  be  at  peace  with  life.  For  I  will  say  it 
once  and  so  be  done,  Idea  is  my  mate — the  one 
woman  in  the  world  whom  only  I  love,  or  ever  shall. 
I  have  lost  her,  but  the  memory  of  her  I  must  keep 
until  I  die — my  passionate,  headstrong,  struggling, 
loving  child.  May  God  be  with  her,  true  and  loyal 
little  heart,  wherever  she  may  go.'  ' 

Dr.  Ballard  looked  up,  as  he  closed  down  the 
cover. 

"  You  see,  he  did  give  back  the  letters,"  he  said. 

Madam  Crewe  clutched  the  arms  of  her  chair, 
sitting  forward,  gazing  fixedly  into  space.  When 
she  spoke  it  was  as  if  she  spoke  in  a  dream,  filling 
out  the  bailiff's  tale. 

"  I  had  no  letters  and,  as  for  the  pocket,  'twas 
never  seen  from  that  day  on.  My  father  insisted 
'twas  a  ruse  on  my — the  bailiff's  part,  his  offering 
to  return  them.  He  said  he  had  kept  them  to  use 


162  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

as  a  means  of  blackmail.  I  was  too  desperate  to 
care.  My  father  swore  the  man  would  presently 
show  his  hand,  but  he  did  not,  nor  his  face  either. 
I  never  saw  him  again.  At  first  I  would  hear  no 
ill  of  him,  but  my  father  and  the  attorney  told  me 
I  was  too  young,  too  ignorant  of  the  world,  to 
know  how  base  the  creature  was,  what  a  narrow 
escape  I  had  had.  There  were  nights — many  and 
many  of  them — when,  here  and  abroad,  I  cried  my 
self  to  sleep,  regretting  my  escape  hadn't  been  nar 
rower. 

"  Now,  sir,  you  know  the  story  of  your  grand 
father  and  me.  It  is  all  very  long  ago.  The  wonder 
is,  the  memory  has  stayed  by  me  all  these  years." 

For  the  first  time  within  her  recollection,  Kath- 
erine  felt  herself  drawn  to  her  grandmother.  It  was 
as  if  a  means  of  communication  had  been  opened 
up  between  them.  She  would  have  liked  to  go  to  her 
and  lay  her  arms  about  her  shoulders  lovingly. 

Dr.  Ballard  broke  the  silence. 

"  The  truth  lies  between  your  word,  and  my 
grandfather's.  /  believe  he  was  honest.  You  be 
lieve  the  contrary." 

Madam  Crewe  was  silent. 

The  doctor  continued.  "  Now,  as  you  say,  all 
that  took  place  very  long  ago.  Even  granting  my 
grandfather's  motives  to  have  been  the  worst,  I 
count  myself  out  of  the  tangle.  I  stand  on  my  own 
feet,  don't  I?  If  I  have  built  up  my  life  on  honest 
principle,  I  can't  see  how  you  can  reasonably  hold 
me  to  account  for  the  sins  or  fancied  sins  of  my 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  163 

forbears.  Our  democracy  isn't  worth  the  name,  if 
it  doesn't  admit  a  man's  a  man  for  a'  that.  I  love 
your  granddaughter.  I  wish  to  marry  her.  I  ask 
your  consent." 

Katherine  could  not  see  her  grandmother's  face 
for  the  sudden  mist  that  had  gathered  to  trouble  her 
vision.  But  she  heard  the  familiar  voice  distinctly 
enough. 

"  Wait  a  moment.  Hear  me  out.  Then  repeat 
your  declaration,  if  you  choose.  They  say  I'm 
avaricious.  Rich,  grasping,  penurious.  Suppose  I 
told  you  I'm  poor?  That  the  bulk  of  my  fortune 
was  squandered  long  ago?  That  I've  had  a  hard 
time  to  keep  my  nose,  and  this  girl's  here,  above 
water?  Would  you  wish  to  marry  her,  still?  " 

"Certainly.     Why  not?" 

"  You  say  that  because  you  don't  believe  it's 
true." 

"  I  say  it  because,  saving  your  presence,  I  don't 
care  a  continental  whether  it's  true  or  not.  Your 
money  or  the  lack  of  it,  is  nothing  to  me.  I  care 
for  Katherine!  " 

"  Suppose  I  told  you  Katherine's  grandfather,  the 
man  I  married,  was  a  coward  and  a  liar,  as  they 
said  your  grandfather  was?  Suppose  I  told  you 
her  father,  my  son,  followed  in  his  father's  foot 
steps?  " 

Dr.  Ballard  shrugged  impatiently.  "  It's  Kath 
erine  I  want  for  my  wife.  It's  not  her  dead  and 
buried  ancestors.  I  have  to  deal  with  Katherine's 
faults  and  virtues,  not  those  of  her  family." 


164  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"You  hear  that,  Katharine?  It's  your  faults  and 
virtues  he — 

Madam  Crewe  put  the  question  with  a  sort  of 
bravado,  but  her  utterance  was  slightly  unsteady. 
She  did  not  conclude  her  sentence. 

Katherine  had  grown  very  white. 

When  she  did  not  respond,  the  old  woman  de 
manded  peevishly,  "Well,  well?  What  have  you 
to  say  for  yourself?  Can't  you  speak?  " 

"  I  say — I  can't  marry — Dr.  Ballard."  The  girl 
rose  and  stood  holding  on  to  the  back  of  her  chair 
with  two  cold,  trembling  hands. 

Her  grandmother  fairly  raised  herself  up  in  her 

seat.  "  What  do  you  mean ?  '  You  can't  marry 

Dr.  Ballard?'  Her  voice  rose  to  a  sharp  fal 
setto. 

Katherine  shook  her  head. 

"  Nonsense !  Whim !  "  The  old  woman  spoke 
with  unaccountable  passion. 

Dr.  Ballard  laid  a  firm,  warm  hand  on  Katherine's 
cold  ones.  His  face  was  rather  pale,  but  his  tone, 
when  he  spoke,  was  quite  composed. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said.  "  I  see  I've  got  in  all 
wrong  on  this.  I  didn't  mean  to  distress  you.  Let 
us  drop  it  now,  and  later,  some  time,  when  we  two 
are  alone  together,  we'll  thresh  it  out,  eh?  " 

Again  Katherine  shook  her  head.  "  No,  I  want 
never  to  talk  about  it  again,"  she  said  tremulously. 

"Why?"  The  old  woman  asked  the  question 
almost  fiercely,  bending  forward  to  peer  searchingly 
into  her  granddaughter's  face. 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  165 

For  a  moment  it  looked  as  if  Katherine  were  in 
danger  of  being  swept  off  her  feet  by  the  intensity 
of  her  hidden  feeling.  She  opened  her  lips,  then 
resolutely  closed  them  again.  Her  grandmother  did 
not  seem  to  see,  or,  at  all  events,  did  not  regard  her 
effort  at  self-control. 

"  Have  you  no  tongue  in  your  head?  " 
"  Say  it  isn't  true — what  you've  just  hinted,  about 
my  father  and  his.      Say  it  isn't  true,   and  I'll— 
tell " 

"  Ho !  Do  you  think  I'm  to  be  called  to  account 
by  you,  young  miss?"  Madam  Crewe  interrupted 
testily.  "  If  Dr.  Ballard  is  ready  to  marry  you,  in 
the  face  of  the  conditions  I  asked  him  to  suppose, 
why,  get  down  on  your  knees,  and  thank  God  for 
such  a  disinterested  lover.  But  don't  flatter  yourself 
you  can  oblige  me  to  do  as  you  choose.  I  am  sixty- 
eight  years  old  and  I  will  not  be  forced." 

Dr.  Ballard  laughed  out. 

"  Don't  you  see  it's  all  nonsense,  Katherine?  The 
whole  thing  isn't  worth  a  serious  thought.  If  your 
grandmother  likes  to  have  her  little  joke,  why,  let  us 
try  to  see  the  humor  of  it.  Perhaps  she  doesn't  want 
you  to  marry  me.  But  now  she  sees  it's  inevitable, 
she'll " 

"  No,"  said  Katherine.  "  It's  not  inevitable.  I 
can't  marry  you." 

Dr.  Ballard  was  silent,  but  Madam  Crewe's  words 
snapped  out  like  sparks  from  a  live  wire. 

"  The  day  Norris  was  here,  you  said  you  would. 
You  insisted  you  would.  Does  your  refusal  now 


166  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

mean  you've  reconsidered  the  conditions  he  sug 
gested?  YouVe  thought  better  of  your  first  de 
cision?  " 

Katherine  gave  her  a  long  look.  It  seemed  to  her, 
her  humiliation  was  complete.  And  still  she  man 
aged  to  hold  herself  in  check. 

"  You  make  it  very  hard  for  me — you  force  me 
to  say  things — I—  Very  well,  then  listen  !  I  do 
love  Dr.  Ballard  and — I'd  have  married  him  if — I 
could!" 

He  was  on  his  feet  in  a  second,  the  chair  he  had 
sat  in  crashing  backward  with  the  violence  of  the 
sudden  spring  he  made  from  it.  But  Katherine  was 
quicker  than  he.  She  turned  and  had  run  from  the 
room  before  he  could  prevent  her. 

Madam  Crewe  let  her  breath  escape  in  a  long 
sigh  of  fatigue. 

"Dear  me!  What  tiresome  things  the  young 
are!  As  Slawson  says,  they're  hard  as  nails.  You'd 
better  reconsider,  and  ask  me  to  marry  you  instead 
of  Katherine.  I'm  seasoned,  if  not  mellowed.  Yes, 
you'd  much  better  marry  me." 

Dr.  Ballard  smiled  grimly.  "  Where  my  hand 
somer  grandfather  failed,  how  could  /  hope  to 
win  ?  "  he  retorted,  throwing  her  a  glance  of  mock 
gallantry.  But  even  as  he  looked,  he  saw  her  face 
blench,  her  figure  sag  together  like  a  wilted  plant. 
In  a  second  he  had  her  in  his  arms,  carrying  her  to 
the  couch,  forgetting  the  personal  in  the  profes 
sional,  working  over  her  with  a  will. 

A  familiar  figure  appeared  in  the  open  doorway. 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  167 

Martha  paused  a  moment,  then  came  forward 
swiftly. 

"Another ?  "  she  inquired,  her  hands  busying 

themselves  at  once  in  obedience  to  the  doctor's  silent 
orders. 

He  shook  his  head.    "  No." 

Presently  Martha  felt  a  quiver  of  muscles  beneath 
her  fingers.  Madam  Crewe's  eyelids  lifted.  She 
made  an  effort  to  raise  herself. 

"  What's  all  this — to-do?  "  she  taxed  her  strength 
to  demand. 

Dr.  Ballard  laid  a  restraining  hand  upon  her 
shoulder. 

"  Nothing.  That  is,  nothing  serious.  You'd  been 
over-exerting.  Nature  stepped  in  and  shut  down  the 
shop  for  a  moment." 

"  Meaning — I  lost  consciousness?  For  how  long? 
How  came  Slawson  here?  Did  you  send?" 

Martha  answered  in  the  doctor's  stead. 

"  No'm.  I  just  happened  along.  My  Sabina,  she 
took  it  into  her  head  this  afternoon  there  was  no 
place  like  home — an'  she  was  glad  of  it.  Her 
an'  me  disagreed  on  some  triflin'  matters,  an' 
she  threatened  she'd  leave  if  I  didn't  come 
to  terms.  I  tol'  her:  '  I'm  sorry  you  feel  that 
way,  but  if  you  concluded  you  must  go,  why, 
I  s'pose  you  must.  We  all  enjoyed  your  s'ciety 
for  the  last  five  years,  but  the  best  o'  friends  must 
part,  an'  far  be  it  from  me  to  stand  in  your  way,  if 
you  perfer  to  look  for  another  situation,  an'  think 
you  can  better  yourself.  I'll  do  up  your  things  for 


168  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

you,  for  luck!  '  So  I  did  an'  out  she  stepped,  as  bold 
as  brass,  with  her  clo'es  done  up  in  a  bundle  slung 
on  the  end  of  a  old  gulf-stick  Mr.  Ronald  he  give 
her  brother  Sammy,  to  carry  over  her  shoulder. 
She  ain't  been  gone  above  three  hours,  but  I  thought 
while  I  was  bringin'  up  the  evenin's  milk,  I'd  ask  if, 
maybe,  she'd  blew  in  here?  " 

Madam  Crewe  compressed  her  lips.  "  No.  Even 
your  baby  would  know  better  than  to  come  here  for 
a  happy  home,"  she  said  with  a  caustic  smile.  "  On 
your  way  back,  you'd  better  look  for  my  child,  who, 
also,  has  probably  run  away.  It  seems  to  be  the 
fashion  nowadays  for  youngsters  to  defy  their 
elders." 

Dr.  Ballard  gave  Martha  a  look. 

"  Well,  I  must  be  movin'.  I  took  the  liberty  to 
bring  you  a  form  o'  Spanish  cream  I  made  this 
afternoon.  It's  kind  o'  cool  an'  refreshing  when 
you  ain't  an  appetite  for  substantialler  things." 

Passing  Katherine's  door  she  paused  and  lightly 
tapped  on  the  panel.  There  was  no  answer.  She 
dared  not  take  it  on  herself  to  turn  the  knob,  so  went 
slowly  downstairs,  and,  finally,  out  of  the  house  and 
grounds. 

Once  in  the  road  she  saw,  a  short  distance  ahead 
of  her,  an  easily  recognizable  figure. 

"  Oh — Miss  Katherine !  "  she  called  softly. 

For  a  moment  the  girl  seemed  undecided  what  to 
do.  She  walked  on  as  if  she  had  not  heard  the  call, 
then  suddenly  wheeled  about  and  stopped. 

"  I  was  afraid  I'd  missed  you,"   Mrs.   Slawson 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  169 

said  casually.  "  All  I  wanted,  was  to  tell  you  that 
if  your  gran'ma  shouldn't  be  so  well  after  her 
faintin'-spell,  why,  I'm  ready  to  come  an'  help  any 
time,  be  it  night  or  day." 

Katherine  looked  up,  her  face  changing  quickly. 

"  Fainting-spell?  "    She  echoed  the  words  vaguely. 

"  Yes.  She  come  out  o'  this  one  all  right,  but  if 
she  had  another  you  couldn't  tell,  at  her  age,  poor 
ol'  lady !  Thanks  be !  it  wasn't  a  stroke.  Anyhow, 
I'd  advise  you  keep  Eunice  Youngs  overnight,  to 
run  an'  carry,  if  need  be." 

The  struggle  was  short  and  sharp.  Martha  pre 
tended  not  to  see.  She  pretended  not  to  be 
aware  that  Miss  Katherine  had  on  her  traveling 
hat,  carried  her  coat  over  her  arm,  a  bag  in  her 
hand. 

"  I'll  go  back!  "  the  girl  said  at  last,  as  if  ending 
a  debate. 

"  Be  sure  you  send  if  you  need  me,"  Martha  re 
peated. 

They  parted  without  another  word,  and  Mrs. 
Slawson,  resuming  her  homeward  way,  summed  up 
the  case  to  herself. 

"  Yes,  she's  gone  back  this  time.  But  come  an 
other  tug  o'  war  between  her  an'  the  ol'  lady,  an' 
I  wouldn't  be  so  certain.  I  wonder  now,  how  my 
young  vagabone  is  doin',  which  her  brothers  an'  sis 
ters  are  all  out  on  the  still-hunt,  searchin'  for  her 
this  minute." 

She  had  barely  reached  the  house,  and  was  busy 
ing  herself  with  preliminary  supper  preparations,  be- 


i;o  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

fore  starting  out  again  to  look  for  her  stray  lamb, 
when  the  screen-door  was  gently  opened  from  with 
out,  and  a  small  person,  very  grimy  as  to  outward 
visible  signs,  very  chastened  as  to  inward  spiritual 
grace,  entered  the  kitchen  quietly. 

Martha  appeared  totally  unconscious  of  any  other 
presence  than  her  own,  until  Sabina's  mind  be 
came  vaguely  troubled  with  doubts  of  her  own  sub 
stantiality.  Her  pilgrim's  pack  slipped  from  her 
shoulder,  the  "  gulf-stick  "  fell  clattering  to  the  floor. 
Even  then  Mrs.  Slawson  made  no  sign. 

The  suspense  was  fast  becoming  unendurable. 
The  child's  under-lip  thrust  out,  her  chin  began  to 
quiver,  but  she  controlled  herself  gallantly.  Nix- 
comeraus,  the  cat,  rose  from  where  he  had  been  ly 
ing  curled  up  in  a  doze,  humped  a  lazy  back, 
stretched,  yawned,  and,  with  dignified  mien,  crossed 
the  floor  to  rub  against  his  little  friend's  familiar 
legs.  That  something,  at  least,  recognized  her,  and 
knew  she  had  come  home,  after  her  long,  weary  ab 
sence,  almost  upset  Sabina's  equilibrium.  She  bent 
down  to  stroke  pussy's  fur. 

"  I  see,"  she  essayed,  with  a  superb  effect  of  non 
chalance,  "  I  see  you  still  have  the  same  old  cat!  " 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  Martha  turned. 

"  My,  my!  "  she  exclaimed,  one  hand  clasping  the 
other  in  surprise,  "  you  don't  mean  to  say  this  is 
Sabina  !  How  glad  I  am  to  see  you  !  Won't  you  sit 
down  an'  stay  a  little  while?  Cora  an'  Francie  an' 
Satpmy've  gone  out  strollin',  but  they'll  be  back  be 
fore  long,  an'  they'd  be  disappointed  if  you'd  'a' 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  171 

went  before  they  got  home,  so's  they'd  miss  your 
call." 

Sabina's  eyes  rolled.  She  gulped  hard  once,  twice, 
three  times.  Then  with  a  roar,  her  "  austere  con 
trol  "  gave  way,  she  cast  herself  bodily  upon  her 
mother,  clasping  the  maternal  massive  knees. 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  stay  a  lit-tle  ivhi-ile,"  she  sobbed. 
"I'm  goin'  to  stay  always.  I  want  C-Cora !  'n'  I 
want  F-Francie !  'n'  I  want  S-Sammy !  'n'  YOU !  " 

Martha  bent  to  lift  the  giant-child  so  the  stout 
little  arms  could  clutch  her  neck. 

"  Now,  what  do  you  think  o'  that!  "  she  ejacu 
lated,  holding  the  shaken  traveler  close. 

Appeared  Sammy  in  the  doorway,  troubled  at 
first  but  brightening  suddenly  at  sight  of  his  recov 
ered  sister. 

"  Hey,  Sabina's  home !  "  he  shouted  ecstatically 
back  to  the  others.  Then  all  came  trooping  in  with 
a  rush,  clinging  about  the  youngest,  hugging  her, 
kissing  her  as  if  she  had  been  gone  a  year. 

"  Why,  it's  just  like  the  Prodigal's  son,  ain't  it?  " 
suggested  Martha,  in  whose  lap  Sabina  sat  enthroned, 
refusing  to  leave  it  for  even  a  moment. 

"  Who's  he?  "  asked  Sammy. 

Mrs.  Slawson  cast  a  look  of  reproach  at  her  son. 

"  Shame  on  you,  to  ask  such  a  question,  at  your 
age !  Don't  you  remember  the  old  prodigal  gen'l- 
man  lived  in  the  Bible,  which  his  son  had  a  rovin' 
disposition  an'  went  off  gallivantin'  till  his  pervisions 
give  out,  an'  he  had  to  come  home  to  get  a  square 
meal?  When  his  father  saw'm  afar  off,  he  got  up, 


172  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

an'  went  out,  an'  called'm  a  fatted  calf,  an' — no! 
I'm  wrong,  he  asked'm  wouldn't  he  like  some  fatted 
calf,  which,  his  son,  bein'  fond  o'  young  veal,  did, 
an'  so  they  killed'm — I  mean  the  calf.  Now  I'm 
wonderin'  which  one  o'  you  three  I  better  do  it  to 
for  Sabina !  There,  there,  Sabina !  Don't  holla  so ! 
O'  course  I  don't  mean  I'd  reely  hurt  your  brothers 
an'  sisters.  Come,  you're  all  tired  out,  or  you 
wouldn't  be  so  foolish!  Cheer  up,  now!  You're 
back  home,  after  all  your  wanderin's,  an'  you  won't 
be  naughty  any  more — if  you  can  help  it,  will  you?  " 


CHAPTER  XI 

"IT^HATEVER  had  been  the  cause  of  disagree 
ment  between  Madam  Crewe  and  her  grand 
daughter,  Martha  noticed  that  a  negative  peace,  at 
least,  had  been  restored  by  the  time  she  had  occasion 
to  go  to  Crewesmere  again. 

"  And  so  you've  been  aiding  and  abetting  a  run 
away  girl,  eh?  "  the  old  lady  accosted  her  sharply. 

Mrs.  Slawson  had  almost  forgotten  the  Ellen 
Hinckley  episode,  in  the  quick  succession  of  events 
nearer  home. 

"  You  mean "  she  pondered. 

"  You  know  perfectly  well  what  I  mean.  The 
Hinckley  girl.  You  assisted  her  to  make  her  escape 
from  that  Buller  brute.  I  hope  you  thought  well, 
before  you  took  the  risk." 

"  Risk?  "  repeated  Martha. 

"  Yes,  risk.  Evidently  you  don't  know  the  differ 
ence  between  courage  and  recklessness." 

"  No'm,  I  don't.  But  I'll  look'm  up  in  the  dick- 
shunerry." 

Madam  Crewe  brought  her  teeth  together  with  a 
snap. 

"  Slawson,  you're  a  strange  specimen.  I  some 
times  wonder  if  you're  plus  or  minus.  You  certainly 
are  not  a  simple  equation,  that's  sure." 

173 


174  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

Martha  smiled.  "  Speakin'  o'  the  Hinckley  girl — 
Ellen — I'd  a  letter  from  the  uncle  she  went  to,  sayin' 
she  landed  there  safe  an'  sound.  So  she's  off'n  my 
mind." 

"AndBuller?" 

"  He  never  was  on  it.  /  don't  mind  him.  His 
name  ought  to  been  spelled  with  a  Y  'stead  of  the 
R.  Them  kind's  never  dangerous." 

"  Well,  I  hope  not.  All  the  same,  I  wish  you'd 
kept  your  finger  out  of  that  pie  for  your  own  safety's 
sake." 

Martha  laughed.  "  I  got  two  good  fists  of  my 
own  with  me,  that  shoots  out  fine  when  required. 
Warranted  to  hit  the  bull's  eye  every  time.  I  used 
to  tell  my  husband,  when  we  lived  down  in  the  city, 
I  was  afraid  I  might  be  arrested  for  carryin'  uncon 
cealed  weapons." 

Madam  Crewe's  stern  little  visage  did  not  relax. 
"  You'd  need  a  more  effective  weapon  than  your 
two  fists,  if  you  had  Buller  to  deal  with,"  she  said. 
"  I've  a  mind  to  give  you  my  son's  revolver.  Will 
you  take  it?  " 

Martha  drew  back  quickly.  "  No'm,  thank  you, 
bein'  much  obliged,  all  the  same.  My  husband  an' 
me,  we  don't  believe  in  settlin'  disputes  that  way. 
Shootin',  be  it  by  one,  or  be  it  by  many,  is  murder, 
an*  nothin'  else.  I'd  like  to  put  a  stop  to  it,  if  I 
could.  I'm  dead  set  against  it.  They  talk  about 
puttin'  a  stop  to  war,  an'  some  says  you  couldn't  do 
it.  But  you  could  do  it.  If  every  man  who  was 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  175 

'listed,  just  crossed  his  arms,  an'  said  respectful  but 
firm:  '  No,  siree!  Not  on  your  life  I  won't  shoot!  ' 
an'  stuck  to  his  word — where'd  they  get  their  armies? 
You  can't  square  anythin'  with  round  bullets.  I 
wouldn't  mind  cuffin'  Duller  a  good  lick  or  two,  but 
I  wouldn't  shoot^m.  I've  too  much  respec'  for  my 
own  peace  o'  mind." 

"  Well,  at  least  take  the  precaution  to  keep  off 
these  country  roads  after  nightfall.  Get  yourself 
home  now.  And  when  you  come  here  again,  if  it's 
at  night  like  this,  bring  that  dog  of  yours,  that  you 
talk  so  much  about,  along  with  you." 

"  Flicker  ?  Goodness  !  Flicker's  the  peaceablest 
party  of  us  all.  He  wouldn't  be  a  mite  o'  pertection, 
even  if  we'd  let'm  out.  Since  we  first  took'm  off'n  the 
street,  Flicker  thinks  everybody  means  well  by'm. 
He'd  never  get  over  the  shock  if  somebody  treated'm 
low  down.  He  just  wouldn't  believe  it,  that's  all. 
But  anyhow,  Sam  (my  husband)  he's  been  obliged 
to  set  some  traps  for  the  foxes  that  prowels  'round 
after  Mr.  Ronaldses  hens  an'  ours,  an'  we're  afraid 
Flicker  might  get  caught  in  one,  if  we'd  leave'm  run 
free  nights." 

Acting  on  Madam  Crewe's  gentle  hint,  Martha 
proceeded  to  take  herself  off.  She  had  not  really 
thought  of  Duller  with  any  apprehension,  but  as 
she  walked  along  the  dark,  lonely  road,  the  sugges 
tion  worked,  and  she  fancied  him  lying  in  wait  for 
her  behind  "  any  old  ambush  growin'  by  the  way, 
ready  to  spring,"  as  she  told  herself. 

This  did  not  prevent  her  from  tramping  on  when, 


176  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

at  last,  she  reached  her  own  door,  and  realized  she 
was  out  of  yeast,  and  Cora  had  need  of  some  for 
the  night's  "  raisin'." 

Mrs.  Lentz  "  admired  "  to  let  her  have  the  loan 
of  a  cake.  Martha  chatted  a  while,  then  started 
away,  this  time  headed  directly  for  home.  She  had 
gone  but  a  short  distance,  the  length  of  a  city  block 
perhaps,  when,  suddenly,  she  came  to  a  standstill. 

"Who's  there?"  she  demanded  sternly.  Her 
voice  sounded  unfamiliar,  even  to  her  own  ears.  She 
attempted  to  flash  her  lantern-light  into  the  inky 
blackness  of  the  thicket  hedging  the  road-bank. 
"Who's  there?"  she  repeated. 

Silence. 

For  a  second,  she  doubted  her  own  instinct,  and 
was  on  the  point  of  passing  sheepishly  on,  ashamed 
of  her  childishness,  when  a  sinister  rustle  in  the 
shadow  brought  her,  as  it  were,  up  standing  again, 
instantly  alert,  on  the  defensive. 

"Who's  there?"  rang  out  for  the  third  time. 
"  If  you  don't  speak  or  show  this  minute,  I'll  come 
an'  fetch  you." 

The  rustle  increased,  A  blotch  of  shadow  de 
tached  itself  from  its  vague  background,  and  a  hud 
dled  shape  inched  forward,  like  a  magnified  beetle. 

Martha  held  her  lantern  up  as  she  took  a  step 
forward  to  meet  the  thing. 

"MA!  "she  exploded.  Then "  Well,  what 

do  you  think  o'  that!  " 

"  O— oh,  Martha  !  " 

The  next  minute  the  magnified  beetle  was  passion- 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  177 

ately  clinging  to  "  me  son  Sammy's  wife,"  as  if  there 
were  no  other  anchorage  in  all  the  world. 

"  But  for  the  love  o'  Mike,  Ma,  how  come  you 
here?  You're  shakin'  like  an  ash-pan.  You're  all 
done  up.  Never  mind  tellin'  me  now.  When  we're 
home  is  time  enough." 

Fairly  carrying  the  poor,  limp  creature,  hearten 
ing  her,  soothing  her,  Martha  got  her,  at  last,  to 
the  Lodge,  set  her  in  Sam's  chair,  with  the  comfort 
ing  pilla  to  rest  the  holla  in  her  back,  brought  her 
the  reinforcing  cuppertee  which,  in  hot  weather  or 
cold,  was  Ma's  greatest  solace  and,  to  crown  all,  sat 
down  and  listened,  while  she  told  of  the  dangers  she 
had  passed. 

"  It's  a  thrawn  lot  they  are,  down  there,"  she 
began,  sniffing  vigorously.  "  You  wouldn't  believe 
the  way  they  do  be  goin'  on.  I  bided  wit'  Dennis 
an'  Sarah  for  a  bit,  but  there  was  no  peace  in  the 
house  at  all.  Every  time  I'd  open  me  mouth,  Sarah 
she'd  be  for  jumpin'  down  me  throat.  There's  no 
livin'  wit'  the  likes  of  her,  let  alone  himself,  an'  the 
childern.  Nora-Andy  told  me  they've  the  hearts  of 
stone  in  their  breast,  the  way  they'd  be  never  carin' 
how  you'd  get  along.  'Twas  two  weeks  I  bided 
wit'm,  an'  then  Sarah  she  brought  me  in  the  subway 
down  to  Hughey's.  'Twas  the  baby  there  had 
whoopin'-cough,  an'  Hughey  says  'twould  be  very 
unlucky  for  one  so  old  as  me  to  be  catchin'  it  off 
her.  Liza  says :  '  It  would  that.  I  wouldn't  have  it 
on  me  conscience,'  says  she.  I  says,  '  How  would  I 
be  catchin'  the  whoopin'-cough,  when  I  had  it,  itself, 


178  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

an'  all  the  young  'uns  here  had  it,  long  ago,  an'  me 
by,  an'  never  a  touch  of  it  on  me.'  But  they  was 
that  set  on  keepin'  me  safe  from  contagion,  they 
wouldn't  so  much  as  let  me  stay  the  night  under  the 
roof.  Sarah  was  as  mad,  as  mad.  Her  an'  Liza 
had  it  hot  an'  heavy  between'm.  They  fairly  had 
me  killed  wit'  their  sparrin'.  'Twas  to  Mary-Ellen's 
they  took  me  at  last.  An'  when  Sarah  told  Mary- 
Ellen  of  Liza's  behavior,  Mary-Ellen  was  fit  to  slay 
her.  '  If  it's  to  Liza  Slawson  my  mother  has  to  look 
for  a  home,  her  own  daughters  must  be  under  the 
sod,'  says  she.  I  was  wit'  Mary-Ellen  one  week, 
come  Tuesda',  an'  I  would  'a'  be  contented  to  settle 
down  there,  only  for  Owen  havin'  a  letter  from  his 
rich  uncle,  sayin'  he'd  come  to  visit'm  for  a  bit. 
They  couldn't  be  after  offendin'  him,  explainin' 
they'd  no  room  itself.  So  Mary-Ellen  ast  me  would 
I  shift  over  to  Nellie's  till  she'd  have  the  uncle  in 
my  bed.  An'  to  Nellie's  I  went.  But,  you  know  as 
good  as  me,  the  sorta  man  is  himself.  You  could 
search  the  world  over,  an'  not  find  a  contrarier.  Me 
heart  was  sore  for  Nellie,  but  at  the  same  time  she'd 
no  call  to  say  I  drew  the  temper  out  of  her  Michael, 
the  like  she  never  see  equaled.  '  He's  never  so  gusty 
when  we're  alone,'  says  she.  Well,  well!  Be  this 
an'  be  that,  I  couldn't  be  sure  I'd  a  roof  to  lay  me 
head  on,  the  night.  Nora's  new  man  has  a  tongue 
in'm,  would  scare  you  off,  before  you'd  ever  set  foot 
in  it,  at  all.  Like  a  surly  dog!  An'  all  the  while, 
the  city  as  hot  as  hot!  The  heart  of  me  did  be 
oozin'  out  in  sweat,  every  day.  An'  not  one  o'  them 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  179 

to  take  me  to  the  Park,  or  set  foot  in  Coney  Island, 
itself,  let  alone  back  home.  The  cravin'  took  holt 
o'  me,  till  I  could  thole  it  no  longer.  I  had  the 
thrifle  in  me  purse  Sam  give  me  when  he  left,  for  to 
spend,  if  I  needed  it.  (God  knows  the  rest  never 
showed  me  so  much  as  the  face  of  a  penny!)  I 
packed  me  little  bag,  an',  be  meself,  I  wanda'ed  to 
the  railroad  station — the  cops  tellin'  me  how  to  get 
there,  itself.  An'  so  I  come  back.  Travelin'  all  the 
da',  from  airly  dawn.  I'd  to  wait  at  Burbank  for 
the  trolley  to  bring  me  here.  Then  I  started  for  to 
walk  afoot.  But  the  dark  come  down,  an'  every 
sound  I  heard,  it  stopped  the  tickin'  of  me  heart, 
like  a  clock.  When  I  heard  the  steps  of  one  along 
the  road,  I  crep'  into  the  bushes,  to  hide  till  they'd 
pass.  Your  voice,  Martha,  was  never  your  own  at 
all.  'Twas  like  a  man's  voice.  The  height  of  you 
showed  like  a  tower  itself,  back  o'  the  lantren.  I'd 
never  know  'twas  a  female.  I'd  no  stren'th  to  resist 
a  wild  tramp.  So,  when  you  ast  me,  '  answer  who 
it  is,'  the  tongue  in  me  head  was  dumb.  But,  'tis 
glad  I  am  to  be  home  again,  surely." 

Sam  went  to  the  front  door  to  shake  out  the  ashes 
from  his  pipe.  When  he  came  back  Martha  was 
helping  Ma  up  the  stairs  to  her  own  room. 

"  Won't  the  childern  be  surprised  an'  pleased  to 
see  you  back,  in  the  mornin',"  she  was  saying  heartily. 

Cora,  bringing  up  the  rear,  remarked  with  impor 
tance,  "  Mother  sent'm  to  bed  sooner'n  usual  'cause 
to-morrow  morning  we  all  got  to  get  up  early. 
We're  going  with  Miss  Claire,  in  the  la'nch,  across 


i8o  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

the  lake,  to  see  a  blue  herring,  she's  got  there  in  a 
cove." 

"A  blue  herring,  is  it?  Well,  well!"  said  Ma 
abstractedly. 

Cora  went  on.  "  Mother  said  when  Francie  told 
her,  firstoff,  you'd  gone  away  for  good,  an'  wasn't 
coming  back — Mother  said,  '  No  matter  how  much 
I  feel  my  loss,  I  must  try  to  be  cheerful.'  Mother 
said  it  was  a  shock,  but  you  mustn't  let  the  world  see 
your  suffering.  The  world's  got  troubles  of  its 
own." 

Ma's  dull  eyes  brightened.  She  gazed  up  search- 
ingly  into  her  daughter-in-law's  face.  "  And,  did  you 
say  that  indeed,  Martha?"  she  questioned. 

Martha  punched  a  pillow  pugilistically.  '  Very 
likely,"  she  answered  holding  the  ticking  with  her 
teeth,  while  she  pulled  the  clean  slip  over  it.  "  Yes, 
I  said  it." 

The  old  woman  slowly,  tremulously  undressed. 

After  Cora  had  gone,  and  Ma  was  in  bed,  Martha 
lingered  a  moment,  before  turning  out  the  light. 

"  I'm  sorry  you  had  such  disappointment,"  she 
said.  "  But  doncher  care,  Ma.  Sometime  us  two'll 
go  down  to  New  York  together,  an'  I'll  give  you  the 
time  o'  your  life." 

For  a  moment  Ma  made  no  response.  Then  her 
quavering  voice  shook  out  the  words,  as  if  they  had 
been  stray  atoms,  falling  from  a  sieve :  "  It  ain't  the 
disappointment  I'm  after  mindin'  so  much,"  she  la 
mented.  "  I  could  thole  that,  itself — but — (perhaps 
it's  a  silly  old  woman  I  am)  !  but  the  notion  it's  got 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  181 

into  me  head  that — that — maybe  the  lot  o'  them — • 
didn't  want  me!  " 

Martha  extinguished  the  light  with  a  jerk.  "  Oh, 
go  to  sleep,  Ma,  an'  quit  your  foolishness.  I'll  say 
to  you  what  I  say  to  the  childern.  If  you  cry  about 
nothin',  look  out  lest  the  Lord'll  be  givin'  you 
somethin'  to  cry  for." 

"  Then  you  don't  think ?  " 

"  Oh,  go  to  sleep,  Ma,"  repeated  Martha,  as  if 
the  question  were  not  debatable. 

The  sun  was  barely  up  when  the  children  began 
to  stir. 

"  Say,  Sabina,"  Cora  whispered,  "  I  bet  you  don't 
know  what's  in  Ma's  room." 

A  quick  sortie,  and  Sabina  did  know.  Then 
Sammy  knew,  and  Francie  knew. 

"  Come,  come !  "  cried  Martha,  appearing  on  the 
threshold,  "  get  yourselves  dressed,  the  whole  of 
you.  Don't  use  up  all  your  joy  at  the  first  go-off. 
Leave  some  to  spread  over  the  rest  of  the  time. 
Ma's  goin'  to  stop,  you  know.  Besides — we  can't 
keep  Miss  Claire  waitin'." 

"  In  my  da',"  observed  Ma  thoughtfully,  "  it 
wouldn't  'a'  been  thought  well  of,  for  a  lady  like  that 
to  be  la'nchin'  out,  just  before " 

"  It's  not  my  picnic,"  Martha  interrupted.  "  I 
said  all  I  could  to  pervent  it  in  the  first  place.  But 
her  heart's  fixed,  an*  I  couldn't  say  her  no,  'specially 
when  Lord  Ronald  said  he  saw  no  harm,  an'd  go 
along  too." 

"  Well,  if  he  sees  no  harm — and  is  goin'  along 


1 82  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

too '  Ma  murmured,  as  if  her  consent  were  to 

be  gained  on  no  other  grounds. 

"  Certaintly,"  said  Martha. 

Everything  was  in  readiness  in  and  about  the  trim 
little  Moth,  when  Claire  Ronald  appeared  on  the 
dock. 

"Where's  Mr.  Frank?"  Mrs.  Slawson  asked. 

41  He  got  a  message  late  last  night  from  Boston, 
about  some  stuff  for  the  electric-plant.  They've 
sent  it  on,  and  he  had  to  go  to  Burbank  to  examine 
it,  so,  in  case  it  wasn't  right,  it  could  be  shipped 
straight  back.  He  said  it  would  save  time  and 
cartage,  and  he  wants  the  work  put  through  as  soon 
as  possible." 

:<  Then,  o'  course  we'll  put  off  our  trip  I  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  " 

"  Did  he  say  we  could  go,  an'  him  not  here  to  go 
along  too?  " 

«  No— but " 

"  Then,  I  guess  we'll  call  it  off." 

Claire's  mouth  set,  in  quite  an  uncharacteristic 
way. 

"No,  indeed!  We'll  go!  We  couldn't  have  a 
better  morning." 

"  Well,  I  do'  know,  but  I  wisht  I  had  my  long- 
handled  feather-duster  here  to  brush  away  some  o' 
them  flims  o'  dust  off'n  the  ceilin'." 

"Why,  those  are  darling  little  clouds!"  Miss 
Claire  exclaimed  reproachfully.  '  When  the  sun 
gets  high,  it  will  draw  them  out  of  sight  entirely, 
and  the  sky  will  be  as  clear  as  crystal." 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  183 

"  It's  as  you  think,  not  as  I  do,"  Mrs.  Slawson 
rejoined.  "  If  you're  shooted,  I'm  shot!  " 

"In  with  you,  children.  Steady  now!"  com 
manded  Claire. 

Martha  being  already  at  the  wheel,  her  husband 
had  only  to  stow  Mrs.  Ronald  and  the  girls  safely 
amidships,  see  Sammy  stationed  in  the  stern  in  charge 
of  the  rudder-ropes,  release  the  boat  from  its  moor 
ings,  and  The  Moth  was  ready  for  flight. 

"  Take  care  of  yourselves !  "  he  called  after  them. 

"  Sure !  "  Martha  shouted  back,  and  they  were  off. 

Now  she  was  fairly  in  the  line  of  having  her  own 
way,  Claire  was  radiant. 

"The  idea  of  finding  fault  with  this  day!  "  she 
taunted  laughingly.  "  Why,  I  couldn't  have  made 
it  better,  myself !  " 

"  Why  don't  those  birds  fly  up  in  the  sky, 
mother?"  asked  Francie.  "What  makes  'em  fly  so 
low  down,  right  over  the  water?  " 

'  They  are  gulls,"  Mrs.  Ronald  answered,  as  if 
that  explained  the  mystery. 

It  was  a  tremendous  surprise  to  find  the  blue  heron 
a  bird  instead  of  "  a  delicatessen." 

For  a  couple  of  hours  after  her  first  introduction 
to  the  new  acquaintance  Martha  kept  exclaiming  at 
intervals,  "Well,  what  do  you  think  o'  that!"  as 
a  sort  of  gentle  indication  of  her  amazement. 

"  Say,  mother,  the  way  the  herring  walks,  it'd 
make  you  think  o'  folks  goin'  up  the  church-aisle  to 
get  married — steppin'  as  slow,  as  slow.  Bridesmaids 
an'  things." 


184  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

Martha  winked  solemnly  across  at  Claire. 

"  Nothin'  interests  Cora  so  much  these  days,  as 
the  loverin'  business.  She's  got  it  on  the  brain." 

"  Dear  me !  But  there  are  no  lovers  around  here, 
I'm  sure,"  Claire  said,  amused. 

"  Oh,  yes,  there  are.  There's  you  an'  Lord  Ron 
ald,  an'  there's  Dr.  Ballard  an'  Miss  Katherine— 
an' " 

"  Say,  young  lady,  you  talk  too  much " 

"  Well,  mother,  it's  true.  I  know  he  likes  her  a 
lot,  'cause " 

"  That's  enough,  Cora.  You're  too  tonguey.  Go 
along  an'  play  with  your  little  brothers  an'  sisters." 

When  they  were  alone  Mrs.  Ronald  turned  to 
Martha.  "Is  it  really  true,  Martha?  Is  Dr.  Bal 
lard  interested  in  Miss  Crewe?" 

Mrs.  Slawson  laughed.  "  Like  that  advertisement 
says  the  baby's  interested  in  the  soap :  '  He  won't  be 
happy  till  he  gets  it ! ' 

"  And  does  she ?" 

"  Certaintly.  You  couldn't  help  it.  But  the  little 
ol'  lady  has  her  face  set  against  it.  You  got  such 
pretty,  tackful  ways  with  you — sometime,  when 
you're  with  the  little  Madam  you  might  kind  o' 
work  around  to  help  the  young  folks  some,  if  you'd 
be  so  good." 

Cora  came  wandering  back.  The  play  of  the 
younger  children  did  not  divert  her.  She  watched 
the  blue  heron  as  it  silently,  delicately  paced  up  and 
down  the  beach,  picking  its  way  among  the  submerged 
stones,  suddenly  darting  its  head  beneath  the  surface 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  185 

of  the  water,  bringing  up  a  bull-head,  perhaps,  and 
swallowing  it  whole. 

"Ain't  he  perfectly  killin'?"  she  murmured. 
"  The  way  he  acts  like  he's  too  dainty  to  live?  And 
see  that  yellow  flower  over  there!  We  had  loads 
and  loads  of  it  last  fall,  and  I  used  to  take  it  to  the 
teacher  till  one  of  the  girls  laughed  at  me  'cause  she 
said  the  woods's  full  o'  them,  an'  besides  it  gave  the 
teacher  hey?  fever.  That's  a  joke.  It  means,  it'd 
make  her  ask  more  questions  than  she  does  already. 
Ann  Upton  said  that.  Ann  is  awful  smart.  Once, 
when  her  composition  was  all  marked  up  with  red 
ink,  'cause  the  teacher  had  corrected  it  so  much,  Ann 
said  '  she  didn't  care.  It  was  the  pink  of  perfec 
tion.'  " 

"  That  yellow  weed  is  goldenrod,"  explained  Miss 
Claire.  "  Do  you  remember  the  names  of  any  of 
the  other  wild-flowers  I  taught  you  a  year  ago, 
Martha?" 

"  Well,  not  so's  you'd  notice  it.  Lemme  see ! 
P'raps  I  do.  Wasn't  there  a  sort  o'  purple  flower 
you  called  Johnny-pie-plant?  " 

Mrs.  Ronald  laughed.  "  Joepyeweed,  yes.  You 
got  the  idea." 

"An'  then,  there  was  wild  buckwheat,  an'  Jewel- 
weed  an' — now,  what's  the  matter  with  me,  for  a 
farmer?  Don't  I  know  a  thing  or  two  about  the 
country?  " 

"  You  certainly  do." 

"  An'  /  know  the  name  o'  some  too,"  asserted 
Cora.  "  Brides-lace,  and  Love-in-a-mist,  and " 


i86  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  Sweet  Sibyl  of  the  Sweat-shop,  or — — 

"  Mother,  I  think  you're  real  mean !  "  Cora  cried, 
anxious  to  prevent  further  betrayal. 

"  Say,  ladies  an'  gen'lmen,  I  hate  to  break  up  this 
pleasant  ent'tainment,  but  I  guess  you  don't  realize 
how  long  we  been  dreamin'  the  happy  hours  away, 
like  Miss  Frances  Underwood  used  to  sing,  before  she 
married  Judge  Granville — which  they  ain't  so  happy 
now,  not  on  your  life,  poor  dear!  I  think  we  better 
get  a  move  on,  or  we'll  get  soaked  good  and  plenty. 
It's  my  opinion  we're  goin'  to  have  a  shower." 

Claire  did  not  attempt  to  argue  the  point.  It  was 
too  evident  that  something  was  really  going  to 
happen. 

"  Yes,  let's  hurry,"  was  all  she  said.  "  It's  later 
than  I  thought." 

Martha  summoned  her  straying  flock,  and  they 
made  for  the  boat. 

The  little  clouds,  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand,  had 
turned  gray.  Francie's  friends,  the  gulls,  were  dart 
ing  excitedly  to  and  fro,  as  if  without  direction,  very 
close  to  the  face  of  the  water.  Here  and  there  the 
lake  showed  a  white-cap. 

Martha  stood  at  the  wheel,  in  the  bow,  and  steered 
straight  for  the  opposite  shore. 

For  a  while  Mrs.  Ronald  kept  up  a  careless  chatter 
with  the  children,  then,  as  if  by  common  consent, 
there  was  silence. 

A  sharp  wind  had  risen  out  of  nowhere,  appar 
ently,  and  begun  to  lash  the  water  into  frothy  fringes 
that  tossed  their  beads  of  spray  high  over  the  side 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  187 

of  the  boat.  Suddenly  Francie  screamed.  This  time 
it  was  not  the  spray,  but  the  wave  itself  that  the  blast 
rushed  before  it  to  break  full  upon  The  Moth, 
drenching  the  child  to  the  skin. 

Martha  glanced  around  to  see  what  the  trouble 
was. 

"  There's  some  tarpaulin  under  the  seats,"  she 
shouted  back  over  her  shoulder,  "  wrap  it  about  you 
an' — dry  up  !  " 

Again  there  was  silence,  while  the  clouds  massed 
themselves  into  granite  barricades,  shutting  out  the 
light,  and  the  gale  gathered  force  and  fury  with 
every  second.  It  was  impossible,  now,  to  see  the 
farther  shore.  The  little  Moth  seemed  blindly  flut 
tering  in  a  dense  mesh  of  gray  mist  impossible  to 
penetrate. 

'We're  going  every  which  way!"  moaned 
Cora. 

At  the  same  instant — "  The  rudder-ropes,  Sam 
my!  "  shouted  Martha. 

The  boy  slipped  from  his  place,  and,  by  sense  of 
touch  alone,  found  the  cause  of  the  obstruction,  and 
freed  the  ropes. 

The  Moth  gave  a  leap  forward  into  the  mist. 

"  I'm  afraid !  "  roared  Sabina  in  no  uncertain 
voice. 

"  What  you  afraid  of?  "  came  back  from  the  bow. 
"  Don't  you  know,  if  there  was  any  danger  I'd  get 
out!  " 

To  the  children,  accustomed  as  they  were  to  accept 
their  mother's  word  without  question,  the  statement 


1 88  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

carried  instant  reassurance.  Sabina  stopped  roaring, 
and  Francie  only  screamed  when  each  new  wave 
broke  over  her,  threatening  to  swamp  the  boat. 

"  Hush,  Francie !  "  called  Miss  Claire  at  length 
in  a  tense,  strained  voice.  "  You'll  make  your 
mother  nervous." 

Martha,  hearing,  answered  back,  "  She  don't  make 
me  nervous.  There's  nothing  to  be  nervous  about. 
Let  her  scream,  if  it  makes  her  happy." 

Francie  stopped  screaming. 

All  the  while  the  throbbing  of  the  little  engine 
had  been  steady,  incessant.  But  now  Martha  no 
ticed  that,  at  intervals,  it  missed  a  beat.  She  waited 
to  see  if  it  would  right  itself.  A  minute,  and  it  had 
ceased  altogether. 

"Sammy!" 

It  only  needed  that  to  send  the  boy  crawling,  on 
his  hands  and  knees,  to  start  it  up  afresh,  if  he  could 
— working,  as  his  father  had  taught  him  to  work. 

The  Moth  spun  around  and  around,  in  the  trough 
of  the  waves. 

Martha  "  knew  what  she  knew,"  but  her  hands 
never  left  the  wheel  for  an  instant.  What  if  the 
engine  could  not  be  made  to  go?  What  could  she 
say  to  Mr.  Frank  if ?  No,  there  was  this  com 
fort,  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst  she  would  be  the 
last  to  have  a  chance  to  say  anything,  to  any  of  those 
waiting  on  the  shore.  .  .  . 

She  heard  the  steady  heart-beat  start  afresh.  .  .  . 
The  boy  was  back  in  his  place.  Martha,  with  new 
courage,  strained  her  vision  to  pierce  through  the 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  189 

curtain  of  mist  and  rain,  could  see  nothing,  but  clung 
to  her  wheel. 

At  length  she  realized  she  was  steering  toward 
something  that  she,  alone  of  all  the  little  group, 
could  see — a  faint  adumbration,  showing  dark 
through  the  pall  of  enveloping  gray. 

But  now  the  wind  and  the  water  were  so  high  it 
was  impossible  to  steer  straight  for  the  home-shore — 
she  could  only  make  it  by  slow  degrees. 

The  storm  had  whipped  her  thick  hair  out  of  its 
customary  coils.  It  blew  about  her  face  and  shoul 
ders  in  long,  wet  strands,  buffeting  her,  blinding  her. 
She  never  lifted  a  hand  to  save  herself  the  stinging 
strokes. 

Little  by  little  the  dark  line  widened,  the  way 
was  made  plain.  Little  by  little  Martha  wheedled 
The  Moth  shoreward. 

"  I  see  somepn',"  shouted  Francie,  at  last.  "  I 
see  our  dock!  "  After  an  interval:  "  I  see  folks  on 
our  dock!  "  Later  still:  "  I  see  father,  'n'  Mr.  Ron 
ald,  V  Ma,  V— oh!  lots  o'  folks!  " 

The  Moth  fluttered  forward.  The  waves  beat  her 
back.  She  seemed  to  submit  with  meekness,  but  a 
second  later,  seeing  her  chance,  she  dodged  neatly, 
and  sped  on  again,  so,  at  last,  gaining  the  quiet 
water  of  the  little  bay. 

Mr.  Ronald  and  Sam  Slawson,  in  silence,  made 
her  fast  to  her  moorings.  In  silence,  Martha  gave 
Claire  into  her  husband's  arms.  He  wrapped  the 
shaking  little  figure  about,  in  warm  dry  coverings, 
and  carried  her  home,  as  he  would  a  child. 


190  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

The  second  they  were  out  of  sight  and  hearing,  a 
babel  of  voices  rose,  Ma's  shrill,  high  treble  piping 
loud  above  the  rest: 

"  When  we  saw  the  tempest  gathering  an'  youse 
out  in  it,  on  the  deep,  an'  not  a  boat  could  make  to 
get  to  youse,  the  fear  was  in  me  heart,  I  didn't  have 
a  limb  to  move." 

A  burly  form  shoved  her  unceremoniously  aside. 

Joe  Harding  approached  Martha,  implanted  a 
sounding  kiss  on  her  cheek. 

"  By  gum,  you're  a  cracker-jack,  Mrs.  Slawson, 
and  no  mistake !  "  he  announced. 

One  by  one  the  little  knot  of  men  and  women 
followed  suit,  Fred  Trenholm,  Nancy  Lentz,  Mr. 
Peckett — all  who,  by  the  wireless  telegraph  that,  in 
the  country,  flashes  the  news  from  house  to  house, 
had  heard  of  The  Moth's  danger,  and  had  come  over 
to  help  if  they  could,  and — couldn't. 

Martha  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  surprise. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  o'  that !  "  she  managed 
to  articulate  through  her  chattering  teeth,  and  then 
could  say  no  more. 

"  Come  along  home,  Martha,"  urged  Sam  gently. 


CHAPTER  XII 

AT  first  it  seemed  as  if  no  one  was  to  be  any  the 
•*•  *•  worse  for  the  morning's  adventure. 

As  soon  as  she  had  attended  to  the  children,  had 
changed  her  own  cold,  drenched  garments  for  dry, 
Martha  hastened  over  to  the  big  house. 

Tyrrell,  the  butler,  informed  her  that  Mrs.  Ron 
ald  was  resting  quietly  enough  now,  but  they  had 
been  uncommonly  anxious  about  her  at  the  start. 
The  shock  had  unnerved  her.  When  her  husband 
carried  her  in,  she  was  crying  like  a  baby. 

"  Well,  you  know  where  to  find  me,  if,  when  she 
wakes,  she  seems  the  least  bit  ailin'.  All  you  have 
to  do  is  ring  me  up,  an'  I'll  be  over  in  the  shake  of 
a  lamb's  tail." 

But  when  the  day  passed,  and  there  was  no  sum 
mons,  when  supper  was  over  and  the  children,  in 
cluding  Cora  and  Ma,  in  bed,  Martha  could  stand 
it  no  longer. 

"  I  just  got  to  go  over,  an'  see  for  myself  how 
the  land  lays,"  she  explained  to  Sam.  "  I  know  it's 
silly,  but  I  just  got  to." 

"  All  right.     Come  along,"  said  Sam. 

Martha  shook  her  head.  "  No,  you  don't.  Some 
body's  needed  here  in  case,  while  I'm  between  this 
an'  the  big  house,  the  telephone'd  ring." 

Patient  Sam  acquiesced  at  once.  "  Have  it  your 
191 


192  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

own  way.  You've  earned  the  right  to  have  notions, 
and  be  fidgety  if  you  want  to.  But  no  news  is  good 
news,  an'  what  you'll  make  by  running  over  there 
at  this  hour  of  night,  when  they  said  they'd  'phone 
if  anything  was  needed,  I  don't  know." 

"  I'll  sleep  better  if  I  see  for  myself,"  *was  all  the 
explanation  Martha  could  give. 

It  was  very  dark,  outside,  once  she  got  beyond  the 
light  from  the  Lodge  windows.  In  her  haste  she 
had  forgotten  to  bring  the  lantern  with  her,  but  she 
did  not  go  back  for  it,  because  she  felt  she  knew 
every  inch  of  the  ground,  and,  moreover,  the  impulse 
that  drew  her  forth  was  so  strong  that  she  could  not 
endure  the  idea  of  delay  for  a  moment.  She  had 
discovered  a  short-cut  across  the  grounds  and  meant 
to  use  it,  though  she  knew  Sam  disapproved  any  tres 
passing  on  his  adored  lawns,  hedges,  and  shrub 
beries,  and,  as  a  general  rule,  she  respected  his  wishes. 
But  now  she  made  straight  for  the  thicket  of  bushes 
walling  in  her  kitchen-garden,  meaning  to  push 
through  it,  at  the  point  of  least  resistance,  strike 
across  the  roadway  and  so  slice  off  a  good  quarter 
of  a  mile,  by  bisecting  the  lawn  sweeping  up  to  the 
big  house.  Just  within  the  thicket  she  stood  as  if 
at  attention.  For  the  life  of  her  she  could  not  have 
said  what  brought  her  to  a  standstill,  but  also,  for  the 
life  of  her,  she  could  not  go  on  until  she  knew  what 
was  on  the  other  side  of  that  wall  of  bushes. 

Listening,  she  could  hear  nothing  but  the  common 
place  night-sounds,  now  grown  familiar  to  her  ears. 
The  stirrings  of  leaves,  when  the  wind  sighed  through 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  193 

them,  the  surreptitious  whirr  of  wings  aloft,  up  over 
the  tree-tops,  the  lowly  meanderings  of  insects  among 
the  grass,  the  soft  pad-pad  of  tiny,  furry  feet  scam 
pering  to  safety.  But  there  was  still  another  sound, 
an  unusual,  unfamiliar  sound.  It  came  to  Martha 
in  a  flash  what  it  was.  A  fox,  caught  in  one  of 
Sam's  traps. 

"Oh,  you  poor  devil,  you!"  she  heard  herself 
exclaim. 

The  words  were  echoed  by  a  human  groan,  so 
close  at  hand,  she  fairly  started. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "    Her  question  rang  out  sharply. 

"  None  of  your  damned  business!  "  came  back  in 
instant  answer.  u  But  since  you're  here,  curse  you ! 

come,    and    get    me    out    of    this    

trap." 

A  light  flashed,  by  which  Martha  made  out  a 
man's  figure  crouching  on  the  ground  the  other  side 
of  the  hedge.  His  face  was  completely  hidden,  not 
alone  by  the  drooping  brim  of  his  soft  hat,  but  by  a 
sort  of  black  mask  he  wore.  Without  a  moment's 
hesitation  she  forced  her  way  through  the  hedge. 
Now  she  could  see  more  plainly,  she  made  out  that 
the  man  was  on  his  hands  and  knees.  One  hand 
was  free — the  other,  caught  in  the  fox-trap,  was 
bleeding  cruelly.  On  the  ground,  within  easy  reach 
lay  a  pistol,  a  bundle  of  fagots,  and  a  bull's-eye  elec 
tric  torch.  The  man's  uninjured  left  hand  was  clutch 
ing  the  torch. 

"  Doncher  stir  a  muscle,  Mr.  Buller,"  Martha  said 
imperatively,  "  till  I  make  out  how  this  thing  works. 


194  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

I  don't  want  to  hurt  you  more  than  I  got  to,  un- 
springin'  the  trap." 

Buller  swore  violently  as  he  bade  her,  "  Go  ahead 
then,  and  be  quick  about  it !  " 

A  moment,  and  the  mangled  hand  was  free.  In 
stantly,  its  owner  listed  over  on  the  grass  in  a  dead 
faint,  in  total  darkness. 

Martha  felt  about  in  the  darkness  for  the  torch, 
set  it  glowing  and,  by  aid  of  its  light,  found  a  flask 
in  Buller's  pocket,  some  of  the  contents  of  which 
she  forced  between  his  lips.  When  he  was  fully  con 
scious,  she  bade  him  pick  up  his  belongings,  and 
come  along  home  with  her,  where  she  could  look 
after  his  hand,  and,  if  necessary,  telephone  for  the 
doctor. 

Clutching  at  her  shoulder,  he  staggered  to  his  feet. 

"  Don't  forget  your  gun,"  warned  Martha  drily. 

"  Damn  the  gun !  "  returned  Buller. 

Somehow  they  reached  the  Lodge.  Sam,  hearing 
footsteps,  came  to  the  door  with  an  anxious  face. 

"  Martha,"  he  whispered,  before  he  had  made  out 
she  was  not  alone,  "  hurry  back  to  the  big  house. 
Mr.  Ronald's  just  called  you  up  this  minute.  His 
wife  wants  you,  and — I'm  going  for  the  doctor." 

Martha  pushed  Buller  forward  into  the  entry. 

"  Look  after'm,  Sam.  He  was  on  his  way  to  give 
us  a  call.  With  his  pistol  an'  a  bunch  o'  kindlin's 
to  fire  the  house.  He  heard  me  comin',  an'  lay  low 
for  a  minute,  an'  got  caught  in  the  trap  you  set  for 
— the  other  fox.  But  take  care  of'm,"  she  said,  and 
vanished  into  the  night. 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  195 

Neither  Sam  nor  Duller  spoke  for  a  moment. 
Then  Sam  opened  the  sitting-room  door. 

"  Come  in,"  he  invited  the  other.  "  Let's  take  a 
look  at  your  hand." 

The  tortured  Buller  thrust  it  forward  where  the 
lamplight  could  fall  upon  it.  Sam  shook  his  head. 

"  That's  beyond  me,"  he  explained.  "  But  I  tell 
you  what,  I'm  going  for  Dr.  Driggs,  anyhow.  You 
get  in  the  car  and  come  along  with  me.  Only,  I 
better  take  that  black  dingus  off  your  face,  hadn't 
I?" 

Buller  made  a  clumsy  effort  to  detach  it  himself, 
but  his  left  hand  alone  could  not  manage  it.  Sam 
did  it  for  him. 

"  Now,  as  soon  as  I  get  the  car,"  he  explained, 
"  we  can  start." 

While  he  was  gone  Buller  paced  the  floor  like 
a  caged  animal,  writhing  with  pain,  crying,  cursing. 
Sam  was  gone  but  a  few  minutes.  It  seemed  an 
eternity  to  the  poor,  waiting  wretch.  Then  away 
they  sped  through  the  cool,  calming  darkness  of  the 
night. 

In  the  extremity  of  his  anguish,  nothing  really 
signified  to  Buller,  yet  again  and  again  he  found 
himself  wondering  if  Slawson  would  "  split  "  on  him. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  Sam  never  opened  his  lips,  be 
yond  delivering  his  message  to  the  doctor  from  Mr. 
Ronald,  then  turning  Buller  over  to  him  for  imme 
diate  attention. 

The  old  physician  scowled  through  his  spectacles 
when  he  saw  the  wound. 


196  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  How  did  you  manage  this  job?  "  he  asked  in  his 
blunt,  uncompromising  way. 

Duller  winced.  "  Trap.  Foxes  after  my  hens.  I 
set  a  trap  to  catch  them." 

"  And  got  caught  in  it  yourself !  Huh !  That's 
sometimes  the  way.  Here,  swallow  this  down.  It'll 
dull  the  pain  some.  Now  is  the  time  you  may  wish 
you  weren't  a  drinking  man,  Duller.  I'll  do  the  best 
I  can  for  you,  but  you've  given  yourself  a  nasty 
hurt,  and  your  blood's  not  in  a  state  to  help  the  heal 
ing  along  much.  However,  we'll  see  what  we'll  see. 
I'll  give  you  these  extra  drops  to  take  home  with 
you.  Use  them  if  the  pain  comes  back.  Don't 
meddle  with  my  bandage,  d'you  hear.  Leave  it 
alone.  And,  let  me  see  you  in  the  morning.  Now, 
Mr.  Slawson Ready !  " 

Again  that  swift,  almost  silent  speeding  through 
the  night. 

Since  Duller's  torture  had  ceased,  the  motion 
seemed  for  him  part  of  a  blissful  dream,  by  which 
he  was  being  gradually  lulled  to  deeper  and  deeper 
peace.  At  first  he  started  in  to  babble  fatuously, 
but  Dr.  Driggs  brusquely  bade  him,  "  Shut  up  !  This 
is  no  time  for  merrymaking !  "  and  he  dropped  back 
into  himself,  subdued  but  not  suppressed. 

At  the  big  house  Sam  stopped  his  car. 

"  I'll  take  Duller  home,  and  come  back  for  you," 
he  explained  to  Dr.  Driggs. 

"  Better  dump  him  out  on  the  road,"  was  the 
harsh,  whispered  rejoinder.  "  I  know  him  from  the 
ground  up.  He  lied  to  me  about  his  hand.  He  was 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  197 

up  to  deviltry  of  some  kind,  other  than  trapping 
foxes,  depend  upon  it !  Between  you  and  me,  that's 
a  fierce  hand  he's  got.  I  don't  envy  him  his  dance 
with  it." 

In  the  meantime,  Martha  had  found  Claire  Ron 
ald  feverish  and  excited.  It  did  not  take  her  long 
to  decide  she  would  not  leave  the  big  house  that 
night.  When  Sam  returned  to  take  him  home,  Dr. 
Driggs  was  not  ready  to  go.  Neither  was  Martha. 

"  But  you'd  better  turn  in,  Slawson,"  advised  Mr. 
Ronald.  "  No  use  in  everybody's  getting  worn  out. 
If  I  should  need  you,  I'll  call  you  up." 

Early  next  morning  the  young  kitchen-maid  from 
the  big  house  appeared  at  the  Lodge  door  for  cer 
tain  necessaries  Martha  wanted  and  could  not  be 
spared  long  enough  to  come,  herself,  and  fetch. 

"  Eh,  now !  You  don't  say  so !  Things  must  be 
pretty  bad  over  there !  "  observed  Ma. 

The  girl  nodded  dumbly.  She  adored  Mrs. 
Ronald. 

"  If  I  was  you,  beggin'  pardon  for  the  liberty," 
Martha  addressed  Mr.  Frank,  "  I'd  get  a-holt  of 
those  doctors  an'  nurses  from  the  city  you  have  en 
gaged.  They  was  comin'  up  in  two  weeks,  anyhow. 
You  never  can  tell.  This  might  be  a  false  alarm,  but 
then  again  it  mightn't.  Either  way,  we  don't  want 
to  take  no  risks." 

"  I'll  telegraph,"  said  Francis  Ronald  dully. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  telefoam?  Ain't 
you  got  a  long-distance  connection  here?" 

While  Central  was  clearing  the  wire,   Katherine 


ig8  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

Crewe  was  ushered  in.  She  hesitated  on  the  library 
threshold,  then  came  forward  rapidly,  her  face  more 
lovely  than  Martha  had  ever  seen  it,  in  its  softened 
expression  of  human  sympathy. 

"  I'm  so  sorry — I've  just  heard — I  came  to  see  if 
I  could  do  something — be  of  any  help,"  she  stam 
mered  shyly. 

Frank  Ronald  had  risen  and  was  about  to  reply, 
when  Dr.  Driggs  pushed  through  the  doorway,  inter 
rupting  gruffly. 

"  I'm  not  quite  satisfied  with  the  way  things  are 
going.  Nothing  to  be  uneasy  about,  you  know,  but, 
under  the  circumstances,  I'd  like  another  man  to  talk 
the  case  over  with." 

"  I've  just  called  up  the  New  York  specialist.  He 
and  the  nurses— 

"  Lord !  I  don't  mean  that!  It'll  take  them  a  full 
day  to  get  here.  We  can't  wait  that  long.  I  want 
some  one  now." 

"Now?"  Frank  Ronald  echoed,  without  any  ap 
pearance  of  understanding  what  the  word  meant. 

"  Now,"  repeated  Dr.  Driggs.  "  I'd  like  to  call 
in " 

Tinkled  the  telephone-bell  with  irritating  insist 
ence. 

Frank  Ronald's  cold  hand  gripped  the  thing  as  if 
he  would  choke  it. 

"  Hello!  Is  this  New  York?  Is  this  Dr.  Web 
ster?  'Morning,  Dr.  Webster!  This  is  F.  B.  Ron 
ald  speaking.  Yes — I've  called  you  up,  because  my 
wife Can  you  hear  me  now?  Is  this  better? — 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  199 

My  wife — I'm  worried  about  my  wife.  I've  called 
in  Dr.  Driggs  of  this  village.  He  wants  more  ad 
vice.  .  .  .  Yes,  by  all  means  come  on  at  once,  and 
bring  the  nurses.  But  Driggs  says  he  can't  wait. 
Must  have  some  one  immediately.  .  .  .  Eh?  .  .  . 
Who,  do  you  say?  .  .  .  Boston?  Yes,  I  get  that 
.  .  .  Ballard  of  Boston?  .  .  .  There's  a  young 
fellow  here  from  Boston  named  Ballard,  but  he 
...  I  don't  believe  he's  the  man.  Wait  a  minute. 
.  .  .  Please  repeat  that!  .  .  .  You  say  he's  the 
best  skill  in  New  England?  National  repute?  .  .  . 
I'm  afraid.  .  .  .  Hello!  Dr.  Webster  .  .  . 
Driggs,  here,  says  'tis  the  man  you  mean.  He  says 
he  was  just  trying  to  tell  me,  when  .  .  .  yes  .  .  . 
I'm  sure  we  can  get  him.  Yes,  we  are  in  luck !  .  .  . 
Very  well  .  .  .  Burbank  Junction  .  .  .  midnight. 
.  .  .  ,Good-by!  " 

Francis  Ronald's  words  and  manner  were  pain 
fully  precise. 

Thought  Martha,  "  I've  seen  parties  none  too 
steady  on  their  pins,  just  that  kind  o'  mincin'  about 
their  steps.  As  if  they'd  dare  you  say  they  couldn't 
walk  a  chalk-line.  Poor  fella.  He's  so  crazed  with 
worry  he  can't  see  straight,  but  he's  goin'  to  prove 
anybody  thinks  so,  is  another!  " 

When  Katherine  reached  home  she  found  Madam 
Crewe  awaiting  her. 

"Well,  and  how  are  things  going?  You  had 
your  tramp  for  nothing,  eh?  Young  Sammy's  ac 
count  of  Mrs.  Ronald's  danger  was  hocus-pocus,  of 
course !  " 


200  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  No.  Dr.  Driggs  is  very  anxious.  He  wants  a 
consultation.  While  I  was  there  Mr.  Ronald  called 
up  Dr.  Webster— Elihu  Webster,  from  home.  He's 
coming  up  with  two  nurses " 

"And  Mrs.  Ronald  is  going  to  wait  for  him? 
That's  obliging  of  her,  I'm  sure !  " 

"  Dr.  Driggs  had  asked  Mr.  Ronald  to  let  him 
have  Dr.  Ballard.  He  had  asked,  before  they  got 
Dr.  Webster  on  the  wire.  Then,  the  first  name  Dr. 
Webster  suggested  was  Dr.  Ballard's.  He  called  him 
'  the  best  skill  in  New  England.'  Said  he  was  of 
1  national  repute.'  ' 

"You  mean  Driggs  did.  Well,  what  then? 
Driggs  is  getting  old.  He  sometimes  muddles.  He's 
probably  got  this  young  sprig  here  confused  with 
the  great  one." 

"  No,  grandmother.  Dr.  Webster  said  it.  Dr. 
Driggs  only  repeated  what  Dr.  Webster  said." 

During  the  pause  following  Katherine's  statement, 
Madam  Crewe  sat  quite  still,  apparently  absorbed 
in  contemplation  of  her  two,  tiny  hands,  lying  folded 
and  motionless  in  her  lap.  When,  at  length,  she 
looked  up,  a  curious  ghost  of  a  smile  curled  the  cor 
ners  of  her  mouth. 

"  Really  I  am  uncommonly  gratified.  You  see,  I 
can't  help  thinking,  how  barely  I  missed  the  honor 
of  being  this  young  man's  grandmother.  I'd  have 
liked  to  have  a  grandchild  of  whom  I  could  be 
proud." 

Katherine  winced.  "  I'm  sorry  I've  disappointed 
you,"  she  said  bitterly. 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  201 

"  Don't  mention  it.  It's  not  the  first  disappoint 
ment  I've  had  in  my  life.  It  probably  won't  be  the 
last.  Moreover,  now  that  you  know,  undoubtedly 
you'll  think  better  of  your  decision  to  give  him  up. 
You'll  marry  him,  after  all,  in  spite  of  the  loss  of 
me  and  my  money.  So  I'll  have  my  eminent  grand 
son,  whether  I  want  him  or  not." 

"  Grandmother!  " 

"  Well,  won't  I  ?  It  seems  to  me,  you  have  quite 
a  keen  eye  for  the  main  chance.  At  least,  that's  how 
I've  made  it  out,  judging  from  your  behavior.  At 
first,  you  were  all  for  marrying  him,  when  you 
thought  you  could  do  it  on  the  sly,  without  sacrificing 
your  interests  with  me.  Then,  on  the  impulse  of  the 
moment,  for  Norris's  benefit,  maybe,  you  played 
tragedy-queen  and  forswore  your  fortune  for  the 
sake  of  the  man  you  love.  All  of  which  would  have 
been  very  pretty  and  romantic — if  you  had  stuck  to 
it.  But,  when  you  had  had  time  to  calculate — presto  ! 
it's  your  lover  you  repudiate,  to  hang  on  to  the 
money.  Now  you're  fairly  certain  he's  got  all  you'll 
need — doctors  fleece  one  abominably,  nowadays! 
Come  and  feel  your  pulse,  and  give  you  a  soothing- 
syrup,  and  send  in  a  bill  for  ten  dollars,  and  that's 
no  placebo,  I  tell  you !  Oh,  there's  no  doubt 

you'll  be  rich,  if  you  marry  a  doctor Where 

was  I?" 

'  You  were  running  down  doctors,  grandmother, 
and  I  don't  see  how  you  can,  when  you  know  what 
those  you've  had  have  done  for  you.  I " 

"There,  there!     I  don't  need  you  to  inform  me, 


202  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

young  miss.  What  I  was  saying  is,  nobody  would 
doubt,  for  a  minute,  you'll  take  him  now.  7  don't." 

"  Grandmother,"  the  girl  began,  with  the  same 
kind  of  exaggerated  punctilio  Martha  had  observed 
in  Mr.  Ronald.  "  Grandmother,  I  want  to  be  very 
respectful  to  you.  I  don't  want  to  say  one  word 
that  will  excite  you,  or  make  you  ill.  But  I  think 
you  take  unfair  advantage  of  me.  You  taunt  me, 
and  jeer  at  me  because  you  know  I  can't  hit  back, 
without  being  an  unutterable  coward." 

Madam  Crewe  made  a  clicking  sound  with  her 
tongue. 

"  On  the  whole,  I  think  I'd  like  it  better  if  you 
did  hit  back,  providing  you  hit  back  in  the  right 
way.  No  temper,  you  understand.  No  rage,  no 
rumpus  and  that  sort  of  vulgarity.  But  real  dex 
terous  thrusting  and  parrying.  Now,  for  example, 
you  missed  an  opportunity  a  few  moments  ago. 
When  I  said  I'd  have  liked  to  have  a  grandchild  I 
could  be  proud  of,  you  might  have  retorted,  '  I'm 
sorry  I  disappoint  you,  grandmother,  but,  perhaps, 
if  you  had  been  Dr.  Ballard's  grandmother,  his  dis 
tinction  might  not  have  been  so  great.'  That  would 
have  been  a  silencer,  because, — it  would  have  been 
true.  I'm  afraid  you're  not  very  clever,  my  dear." 

"  If  that  sort  of  thing — slashing  people  with  one's 
tongue,  is  clever,  I'm  glad  I'm  stupid." 

'  There !  That's  not  so  bad  !  Try  again  !  "  ap 
plauded  the  old  woman. 

Katherine  turned  away,  with  a  gesture  of  discour 
agement 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  203 

"  It  never  occurred  to  me  before,"  Madam  Crewe 
meditated,  "  but  what  you  really  need  is  a  sense  of 
humor.  You're  quite  without  humor.  You've  brains 
enough,  but  you  have  about  as  much  dash  and  sparkle 
as  one  of  your  husband-that-is-to-be's  mustard-plas 
ters.  Only  the  mustard-plaster  has  the  advantage  of 
you  in  sharpness." 

The  girl  wheeled  about  abruptly.  "  He  is  not  my 
husband  that-is-to-be.  I  have  told  you  that  before." 

"  But  the  circumstances  have  changed.  Now  you 
know  he  is  distinguished — probably  well-to-do " 

"  It  only  makes  another  barrier.  Can't  you  see? 
Can't  you  understand?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  might,  if  you'd  have  the  goodness  to 
explain.  But  you  must  remember,  I'm  an  old 
woman.  It's  a  great  many  years  since  I  had  heroics." 

"  Perhaps  you  never  had  them,"  Katherine  re 
torted.  "  Perhaps  you  never  were  young — never 
cared  for  any  one  with  all  your  heart.  Perhaps  you 
never  had  a  heart." 

"  Perhaps,"  agreed  Madam  Crewe.  "  In  which 
case,  don't  appeal  to  it.  Appeal  to  my  imagination. 
That,  at  least,  I  can  vouch  for." 

"  I  took  your  word  for  it,  that  Dr.  Ballard  was 
a  young  struggling  doctor,  poor — with,  at  best,  no 
more  than  a  problematic  future — that's  what  you 
said — a  problematic  future." 

"Well?" 

'  When  I  began  to  suspect  he  cared  for  me,  I  was 
glad  he  hadn't  a  lot  of  advantages,  to  emphasize  my 
want  of  them.  It  didn't  seem  to  me,  then,  so  im- 


204  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

possible,  that  as  poor  as  I  should  be,  and  as  dull  as 
you've  always  said  I  am,  I  might  marry  him  some 
day,  if  he  loved  me.  I  never  cared  a  rush  about 
that  nonsense  connected  with  his  grandfather.  I 
wouldn't  have  cared,  if  it  had  been  true.  So  when 
you  threw  mud  at  my  grandfather  and  father,  I 
didn't  suppose  he'd  care — or  believe  it — either.  And, 
he  didn't  and — doesn't.  So  far,  we  stood  about 
equal.  I  could  give  him  as  true  a  love  as  he  could 
give  me.  But " 

"  Oho !  So  that's  your  idea.  I  see  your  point 
now.  You've  got  the  kind  of  love  that  weighs  and 
balances,  have  you  ?  You  won't  take  more  than  you 
can  give!  Why,  young  miss,  let  me  tell  you,  you 
may  think  that's  high-flown  and  noble — it's  no  such 
thing!  If  you  want  to  know  what  it  is,  it's  your 
great-grandfather's  arrogance  turned  inside  out, 
that's  all!  If  you  refuse  to  marry  the  man  you  love, 
because  you  have  nothing  to  offer  him,  you're  as  bad 
as  I  was  when  I  refused  because  my  lover  had  noth 
ing  to  offer  me.  There's  a  pride  of  poverty  that's 
as  detestable  as  the  pride  of  riches.  You  talk  about 
love !  You  don't  know  what  the  word  means.  If 
you  did,  you'd  see  that  the  real  thing  is  beyond  such 
mean  dickering.  In  love  fair  exchange  is  low  snob 
bery." 

The  girl  stared  silently  into  her  grandmother's 
face.  Two  bright  spots  were  glowing  in  the  withered 
cheeks,  the  old  woman's  eyes  shot  forth  the  fire  of 
youth. 

For  the  second  time  Katherine  felt  that  the  draw- 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  205 

bridge  was  down.  Impulsively,  she  took  a  step  for 
ward,  grasping  one  of  the  little  old  hands,  folding 
it  tight  in  both  her  own. 

"  Grandmother,  I  want  to  tell  you  something — I 
see  what  you  mean  and — I  know  it's  true.  But — but 
— there's  something  else " 

Madam  Crewe  did  not  withdraw  her  hand.  It  al 
most  seemed  to  Katherine  as  if  its  clasp  tightened  on 
hers. 

"What  else?" 

"  When  he — when  Dr.  Ballard  first  spoke  to  me 
about  his  grandfather,  he  said,  '  But  after  all,  the  only 
thing  that  really  counts  is  character.'  He  said:  '  One 
can  afford  to  whistle  at  family-trees  if  one's  own  rec 
ord  is  clean !  '  He  said:  '  After  all,  what's  most  im 
portant,  is  to  be  straight  goods  one's  self.  If  I'd 
lied,  or  was  a  coward  or  had  taken  what  belonged  to 
some  one  else,  or  had  any  other  dirty  rag  of  memory 
trailing  after  me,  I'd  hesitate  to  ask  any  one  to  share 
my  life  with  me,  but ' ' 

"Well?" 

"  Grandmother — I've  the  kind  of  dirty  rag  of 
memory,  he  spoke  about.  I'm  a  coward — I've  lied 
— I've  taken  what  belonged  to  some  one  else." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

1Y/TADAM  CREWE  said  nothing. 

She  gazed  into  Katherine's  face  blankly  for 
a  moment,  then  gradually  withdrew  her  eyes  to  fix 
them  on  a  bit  of  sky  visible  through  the  bowed  shut 
ters  of  the  open  window. 

When  the  silence  became  unendurable,  "  Won't 
you  speak  to  me,  grandmother?"  the  girl  pleaded. 
"  Won't  you  let  me  feel  you  understand?  " 

There  was  a  long  pause  before  any  answer 
came. 

"Understand?  No,  I  don't  understand.  How 
could  one  understand  one's  own  flesh  and  blood  be 
ing,  doing — what  you  describe?  That  story  would 
be  perpetually  new — perpetually  incomprehensible. 
But  perhaps  you're  vaporing.  Using  big  words  for 
insignificant  things.  A  child's  trick.  Tell  me  the 
truth,  and  be  quick  about  it." 

There  was  something  so  formidable  in  the  tiny 
old  woman  sitting  there,  coldly  withdrawn  into  her 
self  again,  controlling  any  show  of  natural  emotion 
with  a  fairly  uncanny  skill,  that  Katherine  quailed 
before  her. 

In  as  few  words  as  possible,  she  sketched  the  story 
of  the  recovered  pocket. 

Madam  Crewe  heard  her  through,  in  silence.  In 
silence,  received  the  object  that  had,  at  one  time, 

206 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  207 

been  such  a  determining  factor  in  her  life.  Kath- 
erine  could  not  see  that  she  betrayed,  by  so  much  as 
the  quiver  of  an  eyelash,  the  natural  interest  one 
might  be  conceived  as  feeling  in  so  significant  a  link 
with  the  past. 

"  Be  good  enough  to  leave  me,"  the  old  woman 
said  at  last.  "And  don't  open  this  subject  again, 
unless  I  bid  you.  If  I  need  any  one  I'll  ring  for 
Eunice.  Don't  you  come — for  the  present.  Oh,  be 
fore  you  go,  see  that  you  keep  a  close  mouth  about 
this  thing,  not  alone  to  me,  but  to  every  one.  Under 
stand?" 

Katherine  nodded  dumbly.  She  felt  like  a  child 
dismissed  in  disgrace,  or  a  prisoner  returned  to  his 
cell.  She  did  not  know  how  long  she  remained  in 
her  room,  but  when  Eunice  came  to  announce 
luncheon,  she  sent  her  away,  merely  explaining  that 
she  was  not  hungry.  And  would  Eunice  kindly  an 
swer  if  Madam  Crewe  should  ring? 

Within  her,  a  hundred  impulses  of  revolt  urged 
to  some  act  of  self-deliverance.  She  fought  them 
down  with  appeals  to  her  own  better  nature,  her 
grandmother's  need  of  her.  It  was  to  escape  from 
herself,  as  much  as  from  her  environment,  that,  at 
last,  in  desperation,  she  caught  up  her  hat  and  left 
the  house. 

She  had  been  gone  several  hours,  and  it  was  twi 
light,  when  a  low  tap  sounded  on  Madam  Crewe's 
door. 

Without  waiting  for  permission  to  come  in,  Dr. 
Ballard  did  so.  The  old  woman  started  up,  as  if 


208  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

his  presence  roused  her  from  sleep,  but  he  could  see 
she  had  been  fully  awake. 

'  You  look  as  if  you  had  been  through  the  wars," 
she  observed  dryly,  examining  his  face  with  her 
searching  eyes. 

He  dropped  heavily  into  the  chair  she  indicated. 

"  I  have,"  he  answered. 

'You've  saved  two  souls  alive?  Mother  and 
child?" 

He  nodded.  "  But  the  war's  not  over.  The 
fight's  still  on.  I've  done  all  /  can.  The  rest  lies 
with " 

The  old  woman  took  him  up  sharply.  "  Don't 
try  to  talk.  Touch  that  bell." 

Then,  when  Eunice,  responding,  stood  on  the 
threshold:  "Bring  me  the  leathern  case  you'll  find 
standing  beside  the  clothes-press  in  my  dressing-room. 
Yes  .  .  .  that's  the  one.  Bring  it  here  to  me! 
Now,  go  downstairs  and  fetch  a  plateful  of  hard 
biscuits.  Hurry!  .  .  .  Stop!  .  .  .  Before  you 
go,  hand  me  that  glass  from  my  table." 

When  the  girl  was  gone,  Madam  Crewe  unlocked 
the  case  before  her,  took  from  it  a  flask,  and  with 
surprisingly  steady  hands,  poured  a  share  of  its  con 
tents  into  the  glass  Eunice  had  placed  on  the  wide 
arm  of  her  chair. 

"Wine?"  asked  Dr.  Ballard  doubtfully,  hesitat 
ing  to  drink. 

"  No,  not  wine.  Drink  it  down.  Now,  the  bis 
cuits.  Don't  talk." 

She  pretended  to  busy  herself  with  the  leathern 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  209 

case  upon  her  knees — replacing  the  flask,  turning  the 
key  in  the  lock,  rather  elaborately  fingering  the 
smooth  surface,  as  if  all  her  attention  was  concen 
trated  on  some  imaginary  fleck  or  flaw  she  had  just 
discovered. 

When,  watching  covertly,  she  saw  the  haggard 
lines  slowly  fade  from  her  companion's  face,  the 
blood  gradually  mount  to  his  cheeks,  she  drew  an 
audible  breath. 

"  That's  great  stuff !  "  Daniel  Ballard  observed 
appreciatively.  "  What  do  you  call  it?  " 

Madam  Crewe  raised  her  eyebrows.  u  I  don't 
call  it.  It  has  no  name,  so  far  as  I  know.  It's  an 
old  stimulant  my  father  picked  up  somewhere  in  the 
far  East.  He  treasured  it  like  gold." 

"  It's  certainly  done  the  trick.  I  was  all  in,  and 
now  I  feel  quite  fit.  Mrs.  Slawson  and  I  have  been 
on  the  job  since  morning.  She's  a  wonder,  that 
woman !  No  end  of  nerve  and  pluck.  I  could  make 
a  corking  good  nurse  of  her !  She's  back  there  now, 
watching.  Firm  as  Gibraltar.  I  couldn't  stand  it 
any  longer.  I  had  to  get  away  for  a  moment,  to 
catch  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  and  a  glimpse  of 

"  Me?  "  Madam  Crewe  caught  him  up. 

He  corrected  her  gravely.  "  No,  the  evening 
star." 

"  Katherine  came  home  from  the  Ronalds'  this 
morning  much  disturbed." 

"Over  the  case?" 

"  Yes — that,  and — the  fact  of  your  being  what  she 
hadn't  supposed." 


2IO 

Dr.  Ballard  looked  his  question. 

"  She  feels  overawed,  now  she's  aware  what  a 
great  man  are  you.  A  bit  sheepish,  too,  I  fancy,  be 
cause,  if  I  remember  right,  she  has  twitted  you, 
more  than  once,  on  being  worn  out  waiting  for 
patients." 

"Well,  what  of  it?  Suppose  she  has?  I  can 
stand  chaffing,  I  hope.  And  besides,  she  was  right. 
I  am  worn  out  waiting  for  patients — waiting  for  pa 
tients  to  '  do  the  rest '  after  I've,  so  to  speak,  '  pressed 
the  button.'  " 

"  It's  hard  to  believe  you're  the  Daniel  Ballard  of 
Boston  there's  so  much  fuss  about.  Are  you  sure 
you're  the  man  Elihu  Webster  meant?  The  man 
he  called  a  celebrated  specialist — the  best  skill  in 
New  England — and  so  forth  and  so  forth?  " 

"  I'm  the  only  M.D.  of  my  name  in  Boston,"  the 
young  man  said  simply.  "  But  I  don't  call  myself 
a  specialist,  much  less  and-so-forth  and-so-forth !  " 

"What  do  you  call  yourself,  then?" 

"  A  physician." 

"  I  wish  I  had  married  your  grandfather,"  Madam 
Crewe  announced. 

Daniel  Ballard  bent  his  head,  acknowledging  what 
was  more  than  mere  compliment,  by  a  silence  sin- 
cerer  than  words. 

"I  must  go.  Where's  Katherine?"  he  asked, 
after  a  moment. 

"  I  don't  know.  Not  at  home,  I  fancy.  Will  you 
do  me  a  favor? " 

"  If  I  can." 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  211 

"  Don't  try  to  see  her  for  a  while.  Leave  her 
alone." 

He  had  risen  to  go,  but  her  words  checked  him. 

"  I  can't  give  you  any  such  promise,"  he  said.  "  It 
seems  a  strange  request  for  you  to  make." 

"You  don't  trust  me?" 

"No.    Not  in  this." 

"  You  may." 

He  hesitated.  "  Perhaps.  Still — I  give  no  prom 
ise.  I'll  think  it  over.  When  I  have  more  time, 
you'll  explain?  " 

"  Perhaps,"  she  echoed. 

The  next  minute  she  was  alone. 

However  she  accomplished  it,  Madam  Crewe  had 
her  way.  Katherine  did  not  see  Dr.  Ballard  again 
before  he  left  for  Boston.  He  left  a  brief  note  ex 
plaining  that  Mr.  Ronald  refused  to  release  him, 
even  after  Dr.  Webster  arrived  with  his  brace  of 
nurses. 

Katherine  read  the  letter  with  a  bitter  smile. 
Technically,  she  had  nothing  to  complain  of.  She 
had  definitely  said  she  would  never  marry  him.  He 
had  taken  her  at  her  word — and  yet,  his  easy  ac 
quiescence  hurt  her  cruelly.  It  did  not  explain  any 
thing,  that  Mr.  Ronald  himself  confessed  his  de 
pendence  on  Dr.  Ballard. 

The  saving  of  his  wife  and  baby  (a  miracle,  Dr. 
Webster  called  it)  made  Frank  Ronald  feel  that, 
whoever  came  or  went,  "  Ballard "  and  Martha 
Slawson  could  not  be  spared  from  Claire's  bedside, 


212  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

until  the  danger  was  over,  recovery  absolutely  cer 
tain. 

It  was  all  perfectly  plausible,  and  yet — 

Then  came  an  urgent  recall  to  Boston,  which  "  the 
best  skill  in  New  England  "  felt  obliged  to  respond 
to  in  person. 

"  If  you  didn't  have  a  family,  Mrs.  Slawson,"  he 
said  to  Martha,  the  last  evening,  as  they  sat  in 
Claire's  sitting-room,  gratifying  Frank  Ronald's 
whim  that  they  remain  within  call, — "  If  you  didn't 
have  a  family  I'd  urge  you  to  take  up  nursing.  You 
have  an  excellent  knack  for  it.  I  could  make  a  cap 
ital  nurse  of  you." 

Martha  nodded  appreciatively.  "  Thank  you,  sir. 
But  there's  so  many  things  I'm,  as  you  might  say, 
billed  to  be  made  over"  into  first,  I  guess  I'll  have  to 
cut  out  the  trained  nurse.  Besides,  I  might  fall  down 
on  a  case  I  was  a  stranger  to.  It's  dead  easy  do  for 
anybody  you  love,  but  to  go  an'  pick'm  up  off'n  the 

roadside !  Well,  that's  a  differnt  proposition. 

The  dirt  an'  the  smell  o'  some  o'  them !  You 
wouldn't  believe  it!  " 

"  Do  you  love  that  scamp  Buller?  " 

"  Not  on  your  life !  That  is, — not  so  you'd  no 
tice  it." 

"  Yet  you  stood  by  him  like  a  soldier,  when 
Driggs  and  I  took  his  hand  off,  last  night.  How's 
that?" 

Martha  pondered  a  moment.  "  Well,  you  see, 
sir,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  feel  kind  o'  responsible  for 
Buller.  'Twas  me  made'm  mad  in  the  first  place,  an' 


MAKING  OVER  -MARTHA  213 

then,  when  he  wanted  to  get  back  at  me,  'twas  our 
trap  give'm  the  nip.  Poor  fella !  You  couldn't 
help  be  sorry  for'm,  he'll  miss  that  strong  right  hand 
o'  his  so,  which  it  used  to  be  a  reg'lar  pretidigi- 

agitator  with  the  licka '  Now  you  see  it  an' 

now  you  don't  effec'.'  ' 

Dr.  Ballard  laughed.  "  His  left  hand's  in  train 
ing  already.  Between  the  whiskey  and  the  ether, 
last  night,  I  was  almost  anesthetized  myself.  But 
joking  aside,  I'm  going  to  leave  Buller  in  your  care. 
I'll  show  you  about  the  bandaging,  so  when  Driggs 
gets  through  with  the  patient,  you  can  take  him  up. 
I  wouldn't  like  to  trust  to  Mrs.  Buller.  She's  a  slip 
shod  creature,  sure  to  neglect.  Dr.  Driggs  tells  me, 
Buller  dreads  him  like  the  mischief,  so  he  won't  go 
there  any  longer  than  he  has  to.  May  I  trust  you 
to  keep  your  eye  on  him,  follow  him  up,  and  let  me 
know  if  there's  any  hitch  in  the  healing?  " 

"  Certaintly  you  may,"  said  Martha. 

"  Another  thing,"  Dr.  Ballard  paused.  "  I'd  be 
glad  to  feel  you  are  keeping  an  eye  on — a — Crewes- 
mere." 

Mrs.  Slawson  nodded.  "  Certaintly,  again.  But 
you  don't  think — that  is,  you  ain't  in  doubt  about 
the  ol'  lady,  are  you?  I'd  hate  to  think  she  might 
have  somethin'  I  ain't  used  to.  I  kinda  got  accus 
tomed  to  strokes  now,  so's  if  she'd  have  any  more, 
I'd  know  just  how  to  take  a-holt,  but  if  she  set  about 
gettin'  up  somethin'  new,  it'd  sorta  rattle  me,  maybe. 
You  never  can  tell." 

"  No,  that's  it!    You  never  can  tell.    /  can't  tell." 


214  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  It  ain't  as  if  she  didn't  have  a  sympton  to  show 
you,"  pleaded  Martha,  "  so's  you'd  be  workin'  in 
the  dark.  When  ladies  is  that  way,  the  doctors  says 
to'mselves :  '  Her  color's  good,  an'  her  pulse  is 
strong,  which  proves  she's  far  from  a  well  woman. 
While  I'm  waitin'  for  somethin'  to  happen,  I'll  re 
move  her  appendicitis.'  Folks  has  such  funny  fur 
belows  inside'm  nowadays,  I  don't  wonder  the  doc 
tors  is  puzzled.  What's  the  use  o'  adenoids  now,  an' 
appendicitises,  I  should  like  to  know,  if  it's  only  to 
go  to  the  trouble  an'  expense  of  bavin'  'm  cut 
out?" 

"  Quite  so,"  acquiesced  Dr.  Ballard  gravely. 
"  No,  I'm  not  anxious  about  Madam  Crewe's  ap 
pendix.  I'm  anxious  about  her — granddaughter." 

"  Oh!  "  said  Martha.  "  It's  her  you  want  to  re 
move." 

Dr.  Ballard  flushed.  "  Yes,  Mrs.  Slawson.  That 
is — I  wish  to  marry  Miss  Crewe.  You  already  know 
of  Madam's  opposition.  I  don't  mind  that — any 
more.  But  something  has  happened — I  don't  know 
what — to  change  Miss  Crewe,  herself.  I  would 
never  ask  her  to  desert  her  grandmother.  In  fact, 
I  would  not  respect  her  if  she  did  desert  her,  leave 
her  alone  in  her  infirmity  and  old  age.  But  I  don't 
want  her  mind  to  be  embittered.  She  is  not  happy. 
I  wish  you'd  look  after  her — lend  her  a  helping  hand, 
once  in  a  while.  Lend  her  a  helping  heart." 

"  I'll  do  my  best,"  promised  Martha  solemnly. 

"  I've  grown  attached  to  this  place.  I'd  like  to 
hear  about — everybody,  once  in  a  while.  I'd  like, 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  215 

so  to  speak,  to  keep  my  finger  on  the  pulse  of  the 
public." 

Martha  looked  up  perplexed.  "  The  pulse  o'  the 
public?  I  don't  know  as  I  exackly  get  what  you 
mean.  But,  if  you  want  to  feel  the  pulse  o'  the 
public,  why — you're  the  doctor!  Anyhow,  I'll  let 
you  know  how  things  is  gom',  if  you'll  excuse  the 
liberty,  and  won't  mind  my  spellin',  which  Sam  says 
it's  fierce." 

"  I'll  deeply  appreciate  any  line  you  may  take  the 
trouble  to  write  me,"  Dr.  Ballard  assured  her,  with' 
hearty  sincerity. 

It  was  September  before  Mrs.  Slawson  was  actu 
ally  settled  at  home  again.  The  nurses,  over  at  the 
big  house,  were  altogether  capable  and  trustworthy, 
but  even  after  all  need  of  her  had  passed,  Mr.  Ron 
ald  liked  to  feel  Martha  was  within  call.  He  fancied 
his  wife  felt  more  content  when  she  was  by,  and, 
certainly,  the  baby  slept  better  on  her  ample  bosom 
than  anywhere  else. 

It  was  a  tiny  creature,  very  delicate  and  fragile, 
a  mere  scrap  of  humanity  that  Martha  could  hold  in 
the  hollow  of  her  hand. 

In  the  privacy  of  their  own  sitting-room,  the  two 
trained  nurses  confided  to  Mrs.  Slawson :  "  It's  too 
bad  the  parents'  hearts  are  so  set  on  the  child. 
They'll  never  raise  it,  never!  " 

"  Now,  what  do  you  think  o'  that!  "  Martha  said 
mournfully,  and  the  two  uniformed  ones  never  knew 
that,  in  her  heart,  she  despised  them,  "  and  their 


216  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

mizrable  Bildadin'  talk,  which  nobody  could  stand 
up  against  it,  anyhow,  much  less  a  innocent  little 
lamb  that  hasn't  the  stren'th  to  call'm  liars  to  their 
faces." 

"  O'  course  we'll  raise  her,"  she  assured  Mr.  Ron 
ald  confidently.  "  There's  no  doubt  about  it.  Yes, 
I  know  she  ain't  very  hefty,  an'  she  ain't  very  ro- 
bustic.  But  what  do  you  expec'?  You  ain't  give 
her  a  fair  show  yet.  You  can't  take  a  baby,  a  few 
weeks  old,  'specially  if  it  had  the  tough  time  gettin' 
in  on  the  game  at  all,  that  this  one  had,  an'  expec' 
her  to  be  as  big  an'  husky  as  my  Sabina.  It  wouldn't 
be  sensible.  Besides,  look  at  her  mother!  Miss 
Claire's  no  giantess,  nor  ever  was,  but  she's  as  sound 
as  a  nut,  an'  so'll  the  baby  be,  when  she  gets  her 
gait  on,  an'  knows  it's  up  to  her  to  keep  in  step  with 
the  percession.  Don't  you  let  nobody  discourage 
you.  Believin's  half  the  battle.  You  can  take  it 
from  me,  that  baby's  goin'  to  live,  an'  thrive,  like 
the  little  thorabred  she  is.  She  wouldn't  give  us  all 
this  trouble  for  nothin'." 

Her  invincible  confidence  was  like  a  tonic  to  Francis 
Ronald.  It  reinforced  his  own  more  flickering  faith, 
so  he  could  meet  Claire's  hungrily  questioning  eyes 
with  reassurance. 

And,  as  the  weeks  went  by,  Martha's  prediction 
seemed  less  and  less  preposterous. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you?  "  she  exulted.  "  That  baby's 
a  winner!  She's  goin'  to  be  standard  weight,  all 
right,  all  right,  an'  measure  up  to  requirements  too, 
give  her  time.  But  between  you  an'  me,  all  this 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  217 

new-fangled  business  with  scales,  an'  tape-measures, 
an'  suchlike,  is  enough  to  discourage  the  best-inten- 
tioned  infant.  There's  more  notions,  nowadays, 
than  you  can  shake  a  stick  at — an'  I'd  like  to  shake 
a  stick  at  most  of'm,  believe  me!  " 

At  the  time,  she  was  thinking  rather  more  of  Miss 
Crewe,  than  of  the  nurses,  whose  "  queer  fandan 
goes  "  she  never  could  become  reconciled  to. 

She  was  frankly  anxious  about  Katherine. 

"  If  I  could  do  with  her,  like  I  do  with  Buller,  I 
wouldn't  say  a  word,"  she  ruminated.  "  I  just  keep 
a  kinda  gener'l  line  on  him,  an'  when  the  time  comes, 
I  get  a-holt  of  his  collar-band,  an'  march'm  up  to  the 
captain's  office,  as  brave  as  a  lion.  He's  got  so  the 
minute  I  tip'm  the  wink,  he  comes  for  his  washin' 
an'  ironin' — I  should  say,  bandidgin',  as  meek  as  a 
lamb  to  the  slaughterhouse.  But  you  can  take  it 
from  me,  there's  no  gettin'  a  line  on  Miss  Kath 
erine.  She's  devotin'  all  her  time  an'  attention  to 
puttin'  off  flesh  an'  color.  The  trouble  is,  she's  got 
nothin'  to  do,  an'  she  does  it  so  thora,  she  ain't  got 
time  for  anything  else.  Dear  me !  I  wisht  I  could 
sort  o'  set  her  an'  Buller  at  each  other.  It  might 
help'm  both  to  forget  their  losses.  He  certaintly  is 
a  queer  dick,  an'  no  mistake  !  " 

"  In  spite  o'  his  sportin'  a  G.  A.  R.  one,  you  can 
take  it  from  me,  Buller  ain't  got  all  his  buttons!  " 
she  told  Miss  Katherine.  "  Do  you  know  what  he 
says?  He  says  everybody's  gone  back  on'm  because 
he's  in  trouble.  He  says,  nobody'll  look  at'm  now 
he's  mangled.  They  was  his  friends  before,  when 


218  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

he  had  all  the  limbs  was  comin'  to'm,  but — now  he's 
shy  a  hand — they're  too  proud  to  notice'm.  He  says 
the  world's  a  hard  place  for  cripples." 

A  faint  smile  flitted  across  ^Catherine's  face 

"  What  a  perverted  point  of  view,"  she  said,  for 
the  sake  of  saying  something. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  think?  "  Mrs.  Slawson  con 
tinued.  "  I  think  now  is  the  zoological  moment  to 
catch  Buller,  an'  see  what  kind  o'  animal  he  is — ;/ 
he's  got  the  makin'  of  a  man  in'm.  If  he  could  be 
got  to  give  up  the  drink,  I  do  believe  he  might 
amount  to  somethin'  yet.  You  can't  know  what  a 
fella  reely  is,  when  he's  always  steepin'  in  licka.  It's 
like  pickles.  You  wouldn't  know  if  they're  dill,  or 
sweet  or  what  they  are,  till  you  take'm  out  o'  soak 
an'  test'm." 

"  I  should  think  you  might  influence  him,"  sug 
gested  Miss  Crewe  impersonally.  "  You're  so 
strong  and  wholesome  and  steady." 

"  Land,  no !  Buller  wouldn't  listen  to  me,"  said 
Martha.  "  How  would  /  be  reformin'  anybody, 
when  so  many  is  reformin'  me?  " 

"Mrs.  Peckett,  then?" 

"  Mrs.  Peckett's  way  o'  doin'  things  makes  some 
folks  nervous.  It's  like  as  if  she  said :  '  I'm  goin' 
to  raise  the  tone  o'  this  town,  if  I  have  to  raise  it 
by  the  scruff  of  its  neck !  '  She's  a  good  woman, 
Mrs.  Peckett  is,  more  power  to  her !  Yes,  she's  as 
good  as  old  gold,  and — just  as  dull." 

Katherine  was  amused.  "  Does  Mr.  Buller  re 
quire  people  to  be  so  very  brilliant,  then?  " 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  219 

"  Land,  no !  He  don't.  But  his  case  does. 
There's  a  differnce.  The  fella  that  gets  the  whip- 
hand  of'm  is  the  fella  he's  goin'  to  respec'.  No 
others  need  apply.  If  there  was  anybody  in  this  town 
could  kinda  give'm  the  fright  of  his  life  on  the  licka 
question,  it'd  be  dead  easy  tame  him  to'm  after 
words." 

Miss  Crewe's  face  lost  its  apathetic  expression. 
A  light  of  interest  shone  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  wonder  if  an  idea  that  has  just  occurred  to 
me  would  be  of  any  use?  Last  winter  I  attended 
a  course  of  lectures  at  Columbia  College,  and  one 
of  the  lectures  was  illustrated  by  lantern-slides,  show 
ing  the  effect  of  alcohol  on  the  body  and  mind  of 
habitual  drunkards.  They  were  enough  to  give  one 
the  horrors!  If  Buller  could  see  those  pic 
tures—  - !  " 

Mrs.  Slawson  brought  her  hands  down  upon  her 
knees  with  a  sounding  slap.  "  There,  didn't  I  know 
you'd  strike  on  just  the  right  idea,  quicker'n,  sure'n 
anybody  else?  An'  you've  done  it!  " 

"  But  it  would  cost  a  lot  of  money  to  get  that 
lecturer  here.  We  might  not  be  able  to  get 
him  at  all,  even  if  we  could  raise  the  money  to 
pay- 

"  Raise  nothin' — beggin'  your  pardon !  "  Martha 
exclaimed.  "  Mr.  Frank  Ronald  is  always  doin' 
things  for  everybody.  Why  couldn't  you  go  to  him, 
an'  tell'm  what  you've  just  told  me — that  you're 
interested  in  savin'  Buller's  soul  from  destruction, 
not  to  speak  o'  the  rest  of'm,  an'  that  you  know  a 


220  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

gen'lman  down  to  Columbia  with  slidin'  pictures,  can 
do  it,  if  he  got  the  price  of  his  ticket,  an'  somethin' 
to  boot?  I  betcher  Mr.  Frank'd  have'm  up  in  no 
time,  an'  thank  you  for  givin'm  the  chance." 

Katherine  shrank  back.  "  Oh,  no !  I'd  never 
dare,"  she  said.  "  Mr.  Ronald  is  dreadfully  unap 
proachable,  I  think.  His  eyes  are  so  stern,  and  he 
is  so  silent.  He  doesn't  help  you  out  at  all — just 
seems  always  to  be  looking  you  through  and  through, 
and  finding  you  very  inferior." 

"Have  you  see'm  smile?" 

"No."   ' 

"  Well,  you  go  down  there,  an'  get'm  to  smile  for 
you  oncet.  An'  if  you  don't  swear  by'm  ever  after, 
my  name  ain't  Martha  Slawson.  You  can  take  it 
from  me,  Mr.  Frank  is  true  blue,  like  his  eyes  are. 
D'you  think,  if  he  wasn't,  Miss  Claire'd  ever  have 
married'm?  Not  on  your  life!  She  took'm  for  first 
choice,  when  she'd  the  refusal  o'  the  pick  o'  the  land, 
an'  I  know  what  I'm  talkin'  about." 

By  the  time  Martha  was  ready  to  go,  Miss  Crewe 
had  decided  that  she  really  must  see  Mr.  Ronald,  and 
find  if  it  were  possible  to  interest  him  in  her  village- 
improvement  plan. 

If  Mrs.  Slawson  would  take  her  down  to  the  big 
house,  she  could  easily  walk  back  before  dinner-time, 
she  said. 

u  Say,  you  make  a  chance,  an'  ask  about  Mrs. 
Ronald  an'  the  baby.  You'll  get'm  quickest,  that 
way.  An'  even  if  you  ain't  used  to  infants,  it  won't 
be  no  lie  to  show  you're  dead  stuck  on  this  one,  for 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  221 

she's  a  beauty  on  a  small  scale,  an'  no  mistake," 
Martha  dropped  as  they  drove  along. 

Before  Katherine  was  really  aware,  she  found  her 
self  being  escorted  upstairs  to  his  wife's  sitting-room 
by  Francis  Ronald  himself. 

Burning  logs  were  glowing  on  the  open  hearth, 
the  place  was  warm  and  bright,  and  fragrant  with 
hothouse  blooms.  Claire  Ronald,  looking  like  a 
delicate  flower,  of  a  very  human  variety,  rose  from 
her  low  chair  before  the  fire,  to  greet  her  guest,  and 
from  that  moment  Katherine's  constraint  was  gone. 

She  told  of  her  plan,  and  the  Ronalds  were  inter 
ested  from  the  first. 

"  I  think  it's  a  capital  idea,  don't  you,  Frank?" 
Claire  cried,  in  her  quick,  impulsive  way. 

"  There  is  something  in  it,  no  doubt,"  he  admitted 
cautiously,  smiling  down  at  her  with  very  different 
eyes  from  those  Katherine  had  dreaded.  "  But  I 
don't  think  much  could  be  accomplished  by  one  lec 
ture.  If  these  people  are  to  get  anything,  they've  got 
to  get  it  in  good  doses,  '  repeat  when  necessary.' 
You  can't  be  sure  you've  made  your  point,  until 
you've  hammered  it  in,  given  it  what  the  journalists 
call  '  a  punch.'  This  can  only  be  done  by  repetition, 
emphasis.  But  a  course  of  lectures — with  lantern- 
slides— a  course  extending  through  the  winter — that 
would  be  a  great  scheme,  I  think." 

Katherine's  face  fell.  "  We  could  never  hope  to 
have  a  course,"  she  mourned. 

"Why  not?" 

"  The  expense.    Think  what  the  cost  would  be!  " 


222 

"  It  would  be  cheaper,  in  proportion,  than  one." 

"  In  proportion,  yes.  But  I  doubt  if  we  could 
raise  the  money  for  one,  much  less  the  course." 

Mr.  Ronald's  eyes  scanned  her  quizzically.  "  You 
should  drill  under  Martha  Slawson,"  he  said  with 
a  touch  of  seriousness  in  his  lighter  manner.  "  She 
would  never  recognize  the  obstacle.  She  leaps  it, 
or  she  mounts  it,  or  she  kicks  it  out  of  her  way — but 
she  never  admits  it, — and  the  consequence  is, — it 
isn't  there.  Now,  suppose  you  were  not  required  to 
raise  the  price  of  the  course.  Suppose  the  price  were 
guaranteed?  Would  you  guarantee  to  raise  the  audi 
ence?  Get  enough  people  to  pledge  themselves  to 
attend,  so  the  lecturer  would  come  up  with  the  fair 
assurance  that  he'd  face  something  beside  empty 
benches?  " 

"  I  could  try." 

"How  would  you  go  about  it?" 

"  There's  a  man  named  Buller " 

"Yes,  I  know  him.  A  bad  lot!  Got  his  hand 
chewed  up  in  a  fox-trap,  while  he  was  on  his  way  to 
my  Lodge,  to  fire  it,  for  the  purpose  of  revenging 
himself  on  my  superintendent's  wife,  Martha  Slaw- 
son.  Dr.  Driggs  told  me  about  it.  Gangrene  set  in, 
and  the  fellow'd  have  lost  his  arm,  if  not  his  life, 
if  Dr.  Ballard  hadn't  operated  as  promptly  and 
skilfully  as  he  did.  Yes,  I  know  Buller." 

Katherine,  considerably  dashed,  took  up  her  theme 
again,  notwithstanding. 

"  He's  very  ignorant,  very  debased,  of  course. 
Yet,  I  think,  as  Mrs.  Slawson  does,  that  he  could  be 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  223 

helped.  He's  very  low  in  his  mind  just  now,  because 
he  thinks  his  neighbors  shun  him  on  account  of  his 
accident." 

For  the  first  time  she  heard  the  hearty  ring  of 
Frank  Ronald's  laugh. 

"  Well,  and  this  poor,  abused  soul  is  to  aid  you? — 
How?" 

"  He  owns  a  horse  and  buckboard.  It  occurred 
to  me  he  might  be  willing  to  help  us,  to  the  extent 
of  taking  me  about  from  house  to  house,  when  I 
go  to  canvass.  Incidentally,  if  the  people  see  he's 
engaged  in  work  we  are  interested  in,  it  may  re-estab 
lish  him  with  them — with  himself.  He's  lost  all 
self-respect,  all  self-reliance.  Mightn't  it  help  him 
to  get  them  back,  if  he  felt  he  were  concerned  in 
some  worthy  enterprise,  connected  with  reputable 
people?  " 

"  It  might." 

The  early  autumn  twilight  had  fallen  before  what 
Martha  Slawson  would  have  called  their  conftab 
ended. 

While  Mr.  Ronald  was  giving  orders  for  the 
motor  to  be  brought  around,  his  little  wife  displayed 
the  wonderful  baby,  and  Katherine,  holding  the  tiny 
soft  creature  to  her  cheek,  suddenly  felt  her  heart 
melt  toward  that  other  tiny  creature,  not  so  soft,  but 
almost  as  helpless,  who  was  sitting  solitary  and  alone 
in  the  chill  and  dreariness  of  what  she  called,  by 
courtesy,  home. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"jl/TARTHA  found  an  almost  disorganized  house- 
•*•"-••  hold  when  she  got  home. 

"Say,  this  is  never  goin'  to  do  in  the  world!  " 
she  exclaimed  in  astonishment.  "  I  got  to  pull  you 
all  up  with  a  round  turn.  The  whole  raft  of  you, 
from  Ma  down,  needs  a  good  whackin'  into  shape. 
Say,  Ma,  what  you  sittin'  there  whimperin'  for? 
You  look  as  if  you'd  lost  your  last  enemy,  an'  had 
nobody  left  to  take  any  comfort  out  of.  I  wouldn't 
put  it  before  you  to  be  yearnin'  for  the  gayety  o' 
little  old  New  York  again.  That  so  ?  " 

Ma  drew  in  her  lips  plaintively.  "  No,  it  ain't 

so.  I'm  contented  here,  enough,  only 'Tis  not 

the  same  place  at  all  when  you're  not  in  it.  Never 
a  one  o'  them  to  think  o'  drawin'  me  a  cuppertee, 
nor  set  a  match  to  the  fire,  when  the  wind  is  blowin' 
that  chill,  it's  enough  to  rattle  the  teeth  in  your 
jaws.  When  I  feel  cold,  I  feel — poor!  " 

She  began  to  cry. 

"  Now,  Ma,  you  stop  that,  double-quick,  or,  you 
may  take  it  from  me,  I'll  give  you  something  to  cry 
for.  I'm  as  cross  as  your  grandmother's  worsted- 
work.  I  could  bite  the  head  off  a  tenpenny  nail. 
Keep  out  o'  my  way,  everybody,  till  I  get  my  house 
lookin'  like  a  house  again,  an'  my  fam'ly  in  order, 
so's  they'll  have  the  appearance  o'  civilized  human 

224 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  225 

bein's,  no  matter  what  they  reely  are.  Cora,  you 
set  the  kettle  on,  while  Sammy  an'  me  goes  down 
cellar  to  start  a  little  fire  in  the  furnace,  to  take  the 
chill  out  o'  the  air  an'  the  grouch  out  o'  Ma.  Francie, 
while  you're  restin'  run  down  to  the  store  an'  get  me 
a  pound  o'  tea — I  see  there  ain't  a  leaf  left  in  the 
caddy.  You  can  take  Sabina  along  for  comp'ny,  only 
don't  forget  to  bring  her  back.  We  might  need  her 
for  somethin'  sometime.  You  never  can  tell.  For 
goodness'  sake !  Is  that  rack-a-bones  Flicker  Slaw- 
son  ?  Well,  what  do  you  think  o'  that !  I  bet  there 
ain't  been  one  o'  you  ever  thought  to  give'm,  or  Nix 
either,  a  sup  or  a  bite,  since  I  been  gone !  Such  a 
measly-appearin'  dog  an'  cat,  /  never  see.  I'm 
ashamed  to  look'm  in  the  face." 

As  she  talked,  Martha  passed  from  room  to  room, 
tidying  up,  straightening  out,  getting  the  household 
wheels  back  into  their  accustomed  grooves  and,  all 
the  while,  unconsciously  transforming  the  atmos 
phere  of  the  place,  and  the  persons  in  it,  until  they 
reflected  her  own  wholesome,  vital  air  of  well-being, 
well-doing. 

Ma,  drinking  her  cuppertee  from  the  saucer,  rev 
eled  in  the  genial  warmth  her  daughter-in-law  had 
caused  to  come  up  out  of  the  cold,  dark,  nether 
regions  into  which  she,  herself,  never  descended,  and 
felt  a  sense  of  virtuous  satisfaction  in  her  own  per 
sonal  benevolence,  as  she  rehearsed  all  the  gossip  she 
had  been  able  to  cull  from  without  or  within,  since 
her  son  Sammy's  wife  had  been  gone.  Ma  did  not 
call  it  gossip,  she  called  it  news. 


226  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  'Twas  Mrs.  Peckett  was  in  an'  out,  as  usual,  an' 
told  me  what  was  goin'  on,  or  I'd  never  have  known 
no  more  than  if  we'd  been  livin'  in  the  Sarah  desert, 
itself.  'Twas  her  told  me  what  a  bloody  rascal  is 
Buller  that  he'd  be  after  comin'  here,  in  the  dead  o' 
night  wit'  his  fagots,  to  burn  us  alive  in  our  beds, 
to  say  nothin'  o'  the  gun  he  was  for  shootin'  us  wit', 
into  the  bargain.  An'  you  to  be  standin'  by,  an' 
holdin'  his  hand,  when  'twas  cut  off  on  account  of  the 
gangerine !  Mrs.  Peckett  says  every  one  in  the  place 
is  callin'  you  a  good  Sam  Maritan." 

"  '  In  me  eye,'  says  Biddy  Martin,"  Martha  sang 
out  sceptically. 

"  Mrs.  Peckett  was  sayin'  'twas  the  wife's  dooty 
stand  by  her  own  man,  an'  not  another  woman's  at 
all.  Mrs.  Peckett  was  after  sayin'  God  knows  she's 
as  quick  to  do  a  kindness,  as  the  next  one,  but  the 
evil  tongues  some  folks  do  be  havin'  nowadays,  would 
make  you  look  out  for  your  reputation." 

"  Say,  Ma,"  said  Martha,  "  did  you  ever  notice 
how  some  people'll  try  to  keep  their  own  place  clean 
by  shakin'  their  dirty  rags  on  other  people's  heads? 
They  don't  care  where  the  smut  lands,  so  long's 
they've  shook  it  off'n  their  own  skirts.  The  trouble 
is,  they  sometimes  get  come  up  with.  They  don't 
watch  which  way  the  wind's  blowin',  so  they  get  all 
their  own  dirt,  an'  then  some,  blown  back  on'm, 
which  they'd  better  never  have  stirred  it  up,  in  the 
first  place." 

Without  in  the  least  understanding  her  daughter- 
in-law's  drift,  Ma  felt  it  desirable  to  change  the  sub- 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  227 

ject.  Did  Martha  know  that  the  Fred  Trenholms 
had  "  leegially  "  adopted  the  three  Fresh  Air  chil 
dren  they  had  had  with  them  all  this  summer  and 
last? 

"  An'  they  do  be  as  proud,  as  proud !  The  way 
you'd  think  they'd  a  fortune  left  them,  instead  of 
a  ready-made  fam'ly  to  eat'm  out  o'  house  an'  home, 
itself." 

"  The  Trenholms  are  bricks!  " 

Ma  coughed  nervously,  then  tried  again. 

"  That  old  bachelor  brother  o'  Mrs.  Coleses,  the 
one's  been  so  long  sick-a-bed  wit'  the  doctor,  he's 
been  took  down  wit'  the  meazles." 

Martha  proceeded  with  her  work. 

"Well,  that's  the  way  it  goes!  When  a  fella's 
been  cryin'  wolf  for  years  an'  years,  the  chances  are 
he'll  attrac'  some  kinda  thing  his  way,  if  it's  only 
a  meazly  little  skunk,  which  is  more  embarrassin'  than 
dangerous.  Meazles  is  a  kinda  come-down,  for  a 
party  Hiram  Parkinson's  age  an'  ambitions.  He's 
been  walkin'  around  with,  as  you  might  say,  one  foot 
in  the  gravey, — poor  soul !  I  bet  it  makes'm  sore  to 
feel  he's  with  both  feet  in  the  soup.  Meazles!  I 
guess  I'll  send'm  a  glass  or  two  o'  my  slip-go-down 
jelly  to  cool  his  throat." 

"  I  guess  he  didn't  be  expectin'  that,  whatever  it 
was  he  did  be  expectin',"  Ma  dropped  complacently. 

"  Well,  you  gener'ly  get  sump'n,  if  you  expect  it 
long  enough.  That's  why  it's  up  to  us  to  be  sure 
we  like  our  order  before  it  goes  in,  for  in  the  end 
we'll  have  to  chew  it,  anyhow." 


228  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

Martha  drew  her  chair  to  the  center-table,  seated 
herself,  and  taking  paper,  pen  and  a  bottle  of  ink 
from  the  drawer,  prepared  to  write. 

"Coin'  to  write,  Martha?"  queried  Ma,  peering 
over  at  her  curiously. 

"  Looks  like  it,  don't  it?" 

"A  letter?" 

u  Maybe,  or  else  my  last  will  an'  prayer-book,  as 
they  say." 

«  I  wonder " 

"  I  guess  if  you're  goin'  to  wonder  out  loud,  Ma, 
you'll  have  to  do  it  later.  I  got  to  get  this  job  off  n 
my  hands  right  now,  an'  between  you  an'  me  an'  the 
lamp-post,  I  ain't  so  flip  with  my  pen  an'  ink,  I  can 
do  much  of  anythin'  fancy,  while  you  wait.  I  got  to 
take  my  time  at  it.  It's  the  hardest  stunt  I  know  of. 
Firstoff,  you  got  to  have  somethin'  to  write  about, 
an'  then,  before  you're  fairly  ready  to  put  it  down — 
what  with  delays,  owin'  to  spellin',  blots  an'  so  forth 
— it's  got  away  from  you,  an'  you  have  to  think  up 
somethin'  else  in  its  place.  While  you're  doin'  that 
the  next  idea  gets  away,  so  you're  left,  whatever  way 
you  look  at  it.  Now,  '  silence  in  the  court-house,' 
as  Sammy  says." 

Ma  would  have  given  all  she  was  worth  to  discover 
what  it  was  that,  for  the  next  couple  of  hours  or  so, 
Martha  was  so  painfully  employed  upon.  She  did 
her  best  to  find  out,  but  though  she  craned  her  neck, 
ducked  her  head,  peeked  and  peered,  it  was  no  use. 
A  substantial  elbow  curved  around  the  paper,  effectu 
ally  shielding  it  from  inquisitive  eyes. 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  229 

Dere  doct.  Ballad  you  will  be  supposed  to  here  I  am 
home  again  but  that  is  wear  I  am  for  Miss  Clare  is  well 
enough  now  to  spair  me  and  the  baby  is  doing  fine  in  spite 
of  the  nurses  witch  says  she  will  live  now  witch  I  thank 
them  kindly  wen  her  two  cheeks  is  getting  as  pink  as  roses 
and  round  besides  so  a  blind  man  could  see  it  and  never  a 
cry  out  of  her  the  hole  day  long  the  lamb  or  night  either 
except  wen  neccery.  Mr.  F.  Ronald  would  not  call  the 
quean  his  cousin  him  and  miss  Kathrine  is  bizzy  getting 
a  party  from  the  city  to  come  and  give  a  corse  of  leckchers 
to  show  the  natives  off  of  lantren  slides  what  there  bodies 
maid  out  of  and  how  there  jerms  looks  wen  you  see  them 
on  a  sheet  verry  much  unlarged.  miss  katrine  hopes  seeing 
what  the  licker  does  to  his  jerms  will  scair  Buller  off  the 
drink  annyhow  he  ain't  drunk  much  as  ushal  becaus  he  has 
bin  driving  her  round  in  his  backboard  witch  he  is  verry 
proud  of  besides  he  has  not  the  time  wen  he  is  doing  it. 
Wile  i  bean  away  Hireram  parkinsin  got  meezils  if  this 
dont  intrust  you  madam  Crew  is  verry  well  but  her  and 
Miss  Kathrin  is  still  on  the  outs  why  i  do  not  no  Miss 
Kathrine  was  getting  verry  thin  and  wite  when  you  left 
she  got  going  to  Mr.  F.  Ronaldses  now  she  looks  better 
do  not  think  that  is  becaus  ennything  accepting  the  corse 
of  leckchers.  MEN  is  necherly  jellys  pardon  the  libberty 
but  believe  me  miss  Kathrin  is  trew  blew  like  if  she  got 
found  of  any  party  once  would  not  change  to  get  found  of 
any  other  party  no  matter  how  plutonic  as  a  gent  leman  i 
once  lived  out  with  his  wife  Mr.  Grandvil  lately  maid  to 
a  judg  told  me  witch  I  just  looked  it  up  in  the  dickshunnery 
for  the  speling  and  it  ain't  what  he  told  me  it  was  a  tall 
but  relating  to  regions  of  fire  insted  of  cool  like  you  feel 
for  your  relations.  Buller  is  heeling  alrite  so  I  no  he  is 
clean  I  told  him  his  hole  arm  would  go  if  he  did  not  let  up 
on  the  drink  i  will  let  you  no  if  he  lets  up  I  will  let  you 
no  if  Madam  crew  and  Miss  Kathreen  lets  up  all  so  enny 
more  i  think  will  intrust  you  I  know  what  was  in  your 
hart  wen  you  asked  me  so  will  rite  as  orphan  as  I  can 
and  no  other  soul  will  knew  you  can  count  on  me.  Love 
to  all  Yours 

trewly  Martha  Slawson. 


230  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

The  writing  of  the  letter  in  itself  might  not  have 
excited  any  undue  suspicion  in  Ma.  Once  in  a  long 
time  Martha  did  actually  "  sit  down  to  take  her  pen 
in  hand  "  to  write  to  one  of  the  relations,  though 
usually  it  was  Cora  who  was  offered  up  on  the  altar 
of  family  concord.  But  to-day  "  me  son  Sammy's 
wife's  "  conduct  was  exceptional.  She  wrote  and  re 
wrote,  erased,  tore  up,  until,  Ma  cogitated, 
"  It's  fairly  a  caution,  an'  out  of  all  sensibleness, 
the  way  she  does  be  destroyin'  perfectly  good 
paper." 

Also, 

"  It'd  surely  be  a  stranger  she'd  be  after  wastin' 
all  that  time  an'  ink  on,  for  not  one  of  her  own  at 
all  would  ever  be  for  gettin'  the  like  of  it."  The 
next  logical  step  in  the  shrewd  deduction  was — 
"  Who  is  the  stranger?  " 

Ma  watched  the  little  Mont  Blanc  at  Martha's 
elbow  grow,  until  finally  it  coasted,  like  a  tiny 
avalanche  to  the  floor.  She  watched  her  daughter-in- 
law  stoop,  abstractedly  gather  up  the  fragments  and 
stuff  them  into  her  apron  pocket. 

When  the  great  task  was  done,  she  saw  the  mys 
terious  letter,  artfully  resisting,  obliged  at  last  to 
yield  to  main  force,  and  go  into  its  envelope  whether 
it  would  or  no.  Saw  it  sealed,  saw  it  stamped,  saw 
it  directed,  saw  it  triumphantly  carried,  by  Martha's 
own  hand,  to  the  R.  F.  D.  mail-box,  though  Ma  in 
sisted  "  one  of  the  childern  could  go  just  as  good,  an' 
save  you  the  steps,  itself." 

When  Martha  returned  from  her  errand  she  found 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  231 

Mrs.   Peckett  in  possession  of  Sam's  chair  by  the 
table. 

"  And  how's  Mrs.  Slawson  after  all  her  troubles? 
It's  good  to  see  you  home  again,"  the  caller  greeted 
her  before  she  had  fairly  crossed  the  doorsill. 

"  Fine !  "  returned  Martha,  "  only,  I  ain't  had  any 
troubles." 

"  That's  what  Martha  always  says,"  Ma  observed 
half-complainingly,  "  Martha  always  says  she 
wouldn't  be  for  callin'  what-she's-come-up-wit' 
trouble.  She  says,  if  you  don't  notice  it,  'twill  pass 
you  by  the  quicker,  but  if  you  clap  a  name  to  it, 
'twill  come  in  an'  live  wit'  chu,  till  you'd  never  get 
rid  of  it  at  all,  like  yourself  this  minute." 

For  a  moment  Martha  felt  as  if  she  had  taken 
a  sudden  dive  in  a  clumsily-run  elevator.  Through 
the  "  sinkin'  at  the  stummick  "  that  followed,  she  saw 
Mrs.  Peckett  flush,  bridle,  and  brace,  as  if  making 
ready  for  fight.  She  flung  herself  into  the  breach, 
laughed,  winked  confidentially  over  Ma's  head  to 
their  neighbor,  and  said  calmly: 

"  Mrs.  Peckett  an'  me'll  have  to  grow  your  age, 
Ma,  an'  be  the  mother  o'  married  sons,  before  we 
reely  know  what  trouble  is,  won't  we,  Mrs.  Peck 
ett?" 

Mrs.  Peckett  nodded. 

'  Though  I  will  say,  I  never  put  much  stock  in  all 
the  talk  that's  going  the  rounds  about  mother-in- 
laws'  suffering  at  the  hands  of  the  parties  their  sons 
married.  Whenever  I  hear  that  kind  of  talk,  I  al 
ways  point  to  Mr.  P.'s  mother  who  lived  with  us 


232  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

a  year  and  a  half  after  we  went  to  housekeeping. 
The  store  she  set  by  me!  She  was  so  afraid  I'd 
do  too  much,  or  be  worried,  or  the  like  of  that,  that, 
at  the  last,  when  she  couldn't  say  much  of  anything, 
for  the  weakness,  she'd  tell  the  nurse,  '  Don't  let 
Beulah  in !  '  When  the  nurse  told  me  about  it,  after 
Mother  Peckett  was  gone  I  was  so  affected  I  'most 
cried.  I  said  to  the  nurse,  '  Did  you  ever!  '  and  the 
nurse  said  to  me,  '  We  reap  what  we  sow  1 '  Just 
like  that — '  We  reap  what  we  sow ! '  I  wager  she's 
told  the  story  to  many  a  family  she's  been  out  nursing 
since.  Though,  of  course,  one  case  don't  prove  the 
rule.  But  even  if  I  am  exceptional,  I  believe  there's 
lots  of  daughter-in-laws  better  than  they  give  them 
credit  for  being." 

"  Oh,  I  ain't  complaining"  Ma  maintained. 
"  Martha,  here,  duz  fairly  well,  an'  I'll  say  this  much 
for  her,  she's  turned  out  better  than  I  expected." 

Martha  bowed  profoundly.  '  Thank  you,  thank 
you,  sir,'  she  sayed.  '  Your  kindness  I  never  shall 
forget!'" 

"  Me  son  Sammy  was  me  youngest,  an'  'twas  hard 
on  me,  part  wit'  him,  to  be  married.  All  the  time 
he  was  courtin'  Martha,  I  was  prayin'  she'd  turn'm 
down,  or  somethin'd  happen  to  come  between'm,  the 
way  they'd  never  go  to  the  altar  when  the  time 
come.  I  wanted  Martha  for  to  be  takin'  another  fella 
was  sparkin'  her  along  wit'  Sammy,  but  she  didn't. 
She  tuk  Sammy,  like  as  if  it  was  to  spite  me.  It 
fairly  broke  me  heart." 

"  Oho !    So  you  had  your  love-affairs,  like  the  rest 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  233 

of  us,  Mrs.  Slawson.  Do  tell !  Is  the  heart-broken 
lover  still  hanging  on,  or " 

"  Heart-broken  nothin' ! "  ejaculated  Martha 
scornfully.  "  Gilroy's  as  chipper  as  a  squirrel,  an' 
don't  you  forget  it !  " 

Ma  wagged  a  sagacious  head.  "  But  he  never 
married,  Martha.  You  know  that,  as  good  as  me. 
An'  it's  not  for  the  lack  of  chances,  itself.  There's 
many  a  girl  would  give  her  eye-teeth  for'm,  wit'  the 
riches  he  has,  an'  dressin'  like  a  dood,  the  day." 

Mrs.  Peckett  sighed.  "  Well,  well,  and  I  thought 
you  to  be  such  a  sober,  steady-going  woman,  Mrs. 
Slawson !  But  it  seems  you've  had  your  romance, 
too !  It's  a  surprise,  but — live  and  learn !  Live  and 
learn !  " 

"  That's  just  it !  "  Martha  returned.  "  We  don't. 
We  live,  but  we  don't  learn,  more's  the  pity.  Have 
a  cup  o'  tea.  Ma  relishes  it,  along  about  this  time 
in  the  afternoon,  an'  it  won't  be  a  mite  o'  trouble. 
An'  you  must  sample  some  cookies  I  made  this 
mornin'.  I'm  quite  stuck  on  my  own  cookies,  if  I 
do  say  it,  as  shouldn't." 

After  her  guest  had  eaten,  drunk,  and  departed, 
Martha  observed  with  more  than  usual  gravity, 

"  Say,  Ma,  you  never  want  to  mention  anythin'  to 
Mrs.  Peckett  you  wouldn't  just  as  lief  was  posted  on 
a  board-fence." 

"  Why,  what  call  have  you  to  say  that  to  me,  I 
should  like  to  know,  Martha  Carrol?" 

"  Nothin'  much,  only — I  kind  o'  wish  she  hadn't 
got  wind  o'  Gilroy." 


234  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  I  do  declare !  "  whimpered  Ma,  "  Did  you  ever 
hear  the  like?  If  I  so  much  as  open  me  lips,  I'm 
rebuked  for't,  the  way  I'd  bring  confusion  on  the 
fam'ly.  Better  for  me,  if  I  kep'  to  me  own  room 
entirely,  an'  never  set  foot  here  at  all,  to  be  accused 
o'  settin'  the  neighbors  gossipin'  when  'twas  never 
me,  in  the  first  place,  but  yourself  alone,  mentioned 
Gilroy's  name." 

Martha  shrugged.  "  Come  on,  now,  Ma,  cheer 
up!  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  your  feelin's.  It's  just 
I  nacherly  distrust  Mrs.  Peckett.  I  used  to  think 
she  was  good,  firstoff.  But  she's  as  shifty  as  dust! 
I  wouldn't  put  it  before  her  to  take  anything  she  got 
a-holt  of — the  innocentest  thing,  an'  twist  it  into 
what'd  scandalize  your  name,  so  you'd  never  get  rid 
of  the  smutch  of  it,  however  you'd  try.  The  worst 
things  ever  I  heard  of  the  folks  in  this  place,  Mrs. 
Peckett  told  me.  It's  took  me  over  a  year  to  find 
out  most  of'm's  just  mischeevious  tattle.  You  can 
lock  up  against  a  thief,  but  you  can't  pertec'  yourself 
from  a  liar." 

Ma  made  no  response,  beyond  blinking  very  fast 
for  a  second  or  so,  but  that  was  enough  for  Martha. 
Recognizing  it  as  the  sign  of  a  coming  deluge,  she 
hastily  changed  the  subject. 

"  What  do  you  hear  from  the  folks  down  home, 
these  days  ?  "  she  asked  affably. 

"  No  more  than  yourself.  Sam  got  a  letter  from 
one  o'  them  (Andy,  I'm  thinkin')  this  mornin'. 
Didn't  he  be  after  readin'  it  to  youse  before  he  went 
out?" 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  235 

"  No,  he  did  not." 

"  I  thought  surely  he  would  be  tellin'  you,  that  are 
his  wife,  even  if  he  kep'  his  old  mother  in  ignorance. 
That's  the  way  it  is  wit'  childern,  these  times." 

"  For  the  love  o'  Mike !  "  Martha  murmured  be 
neath  her  breath. 

When  Sam  came  in,  shortly  after,  had  silently  eaten 
his  supper,  and  was  preparing  to  settle  down  for  a 
bout  with  The  New  England  Farmer,  she  proceeded 
to  take  him  to  task  on  his  mother's  behalf. 

"  Ma  feels  kind  o'  sore  because  you  didn't  show 
her  the  letter  you  got  this  mornin'  from  Andy." 

Sam  pulled  off  his  shoes  with  a  jerk.  "  How'd 
she  know  I  got  a  letter  from  Andy?  " 

"  I  d'know.     But  you  did,  didn't  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Well,  why  didn't  you  read  it  to  her?  She's 
gettin'  old,  an'  the  older  she  gets,  the  crankier  she 
gets.  I  guess  it's  up  to  us  to  humor  her,  for,  one 
thing's  certain,  she  won't  humor  us,  an'  there  might 
as  well  be  some  fun  in  the  house  for  some  one." 

Sam  caught  his  lower  lip  between  his  teeth  and 
held  it  there  for  a  moment. 

"  There  was  nothing  in  Andy's  letter  would  inter 
est  her.  That  is,  there  was  no  family  news,  or  any 
thing.  'Twas  a  business  letter." 

Martha  proceeded  with  her  work,  dropping  her 
questioning  at  once. 

"  Well,  an'  why  wouldn't  I  be  interested  in  me  own 
son  Andy's  venturin',  no  matter  if  it  is  business,  it 
self?  "  insisted  the  old  woman  querulously,  when 


236  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

Martha  repeated  what  Sam  had  said.  "  If  that  same 
Andy  does  be  makin'  a  fortune,  surely  his  own  mother 
should  be  hearin'  tell  of  it,  first;  leastwise,  so  she 
should  in  any  God-fearin'  fam'ly.  But  it's  more  like 
a  heathen  I'm  treated  now,  than  a  Christian  woman, 
that's  raised  a  big  crop  o'  childern  till  they'd  be  able 
fend  for  themselves.  Andy  is  likeliest  of  the  lot,  an' 
now,  when  he's  made  his  fortune,  an'  would  be 
writin'  his  brother  of  his  luck,  his  own  mother  would 
be  told,  '  It's  only  business !  '  the  way  she'll  not  take 
a  natural  joy  in  his  triumphin',  or,  maybe,  look  to'm 
for  a  stray  dollar,  itself." 

To  all  of  which  Martha  made  no  reply. 

But  later,  when  Ma  and  the  children  were  abed 
and  asleep,  she  looked  up  from  her  mending  to  find 
Sam's  eyes  fixed  on  her  in  a  stare  of  grim  desperation. 

"  For  a  fella  whose  brother  has  just  made  his 
everlastin'  fortune,  you're  the  mournfullest  party  I 
ever  struck,"  she  quietly  observed.  "  You're  as  glum- 
lookin'  as  one  o'  them  ball-bearer  undertakers  at  a 
funer'l.  Cheer  up!  It  ain't  your  funer'l!  An'  if 
you  ain't  made  the  fortune,  your  brother  has,  so  it's 
all  in  the  fam'ly,  anyhow." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  Sam  asked. 

"  Why,  Ma  says  Andy's  letter  was  to  tell  you  he's 
made  a  fortune." 

Sam  groaned. 

"Well,  hasn't  he?" 

"  No." 

"  What  was  his  letter  about,  then?  He  ain't  after 
money,  to  borrow  it  off'n  you,  is  he?" 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  237 

Sam  shook  his  head. 

"  Because,  if  Andy  wants  to  try  any  of  his  get- 
rich-quick  games  on  us,  he  better  guess  again.  He's 
got  to  take  his  chances  with  all  the  other  fancy 
dancers,  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  It's  a  poor  pie 
won't  grease  its  own  tin." 

"  He  don't  want  to  borrow,  Martha.    He " 

"Well ?" 

Sam  swallowed  hard,  laid  The  New  England 
Farmer  on  the  table,  and  drew  himself  in  his  chair 
a  step  nearer  his  wife. 

"  When  I  was  down  in  New  York,  Andy  was 
fairly  beset  with  the  idea  of  going  into  a  scheme  with 
a  man  he  knew,  who'd  offered  him  a  chance,  if  he 
could  raise  the  cash,  or  as-good-as.  Andy  could  talk 
of  nothing  else.  The  same  with  Nora-Andy.  They 
told  me  all  about  it,  and  I'm  bound  to  say  it  did 
sound  good  to  me.  But  I'd  no  money  to  give  or 
lend,  and  I  told  them  so.  Ma'd  been  blabbing  about 
our  having  a  bit  saved,  and  Nora-Andy  reproached 
me  with  withholding  it  from  my  own  brother,  when 
it  was  only  a  loan  he  needed,  with  good  interest  for 
the  one  loaned  it,  to  take  the  chance  of  a  lifetime. 
I  told  them  the  money  wasn't  mine,  but  yours  and 
the  children's.  You'd  saved  it,  not  I.  And  then 
Andy  said,  he'd  never  lay  hand  on  it,  if  it  was  the 
last  penny  he'd  ever  hope  to  see.  'Twas  not  money 
he  wanted  of  me  at  all,  and  he  brought  out  a  paper, 
that,  if  I  would  set  my  name  to  it,  would  help  him 
out,  as  fine  as  money,  and  nobody  hurt  by  the  trans 
action  a  hair." 


238  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

Martha  dropped  her  sewing  to  her  lap. 

"  You  never  signed  it,  Sam?  "  she  entreated.  "  Of 
course,  you  never  signed  it.  You  know  better'n  me 
that  it's  wrong  to  set  your  name  to  any  tool — (ol' 
lady  Crewe's  Tver's  very  words) — wrong  to  set  your 
name  to  any  tool " 

"  Instrument,"  suggested  Sam  drearily. 

"  Well,  instrument,  then.  It's  wrong  to  set  your 
name  to  any  instrument  unless  you  know  what  you're 
up  against." 

"  I  know  it,"  confessed  Sam  humbly. 

"Well?"  Martha  plied  him. 

"  I  did  it,  mother.  And  now,  the  note's  come 
due,  and  Andy  can't  meet  it,  and " 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  o'  that!"  sighed 
Martha. 

Sam  had  been  leaning  forward  on  his  elbows,  his 
palms  propping  his  chin.  Now  his  face  dropped  into 
his  hands,  as  he  hid  his  haggard  eyes  from  her  clear, 
searching  ones. 

"How  much,  Sam?" 

"  All  we  got.     The  whole  two-hundred-and-fifty." 

For  a  moment  Martha  was  dumb.  Then,  straight 
ening  back  in  her  chair,  taking  up  her  sewing  again, 
she  said,  "  Well,  at  least  we  got  it.  There's  that  to 
be  thankful  for.  An'  doncher  break  your  heart, 
Sam,  worryin'  about  your  bein'  such  a  fool  as  sign 
that  tool — I  should  say  instrument.  I  done  the  same 
thing  myself,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it.  The  pot 
can't  call  the  kettle  black.  I  set  my  name  to  a  paper, 
ol'  lady  Crewe  ast  me  to,  an'  God  only  knows  how 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  239 

much  I'll  be  stung  for  it,  for  /  don't. — But  wouldn't 
it  kinda  discourage  you  from  puttin'  by  for  a  rainy 
day,  when  the  money  you  scrimped  an'  scringed  to 
save,  has  to  go  for  a  umbrella  to  keep  some  other 
fella  dry,  which  all  you  get,  is  the  drippin's — right  in 
the  neck!  " 


CHAPTER  XV 

AFTER  many  days  of  serious  pondering  Martha 
•**•  decided  that  the  only  way  to  relieve  her  mind 
was  to  "  march  straight  up  to  the  captain's  office," 
and  ask  Madam  Crewe  point-blank,  precisely  what 
the  liabilities  would  be,  in  the  event  of  the  paper  she 
had  signed,  falling  due,  and  failing  to  be  met  by  the 
old  lady  herself. 

"  But  if  she  said  'twas  her  will? "  argued  Sam. 

4  You're  all  right  if  it  was  her  will.  You  couldn't 
lose  out  on  that,  you  know.  Unless  you  were  the 
kind  that'd  be  looking  for  yourself.  And,  of  course, 
if  you  sign  one  as  witness,  you're  sure  you  can't  be 
left  anything  in  it." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  left  anything  in  it.  But,  by 
the  same  token,  I  don't  want  to  be  left  other  ways, 
either.  That's  to  say,  I  wouldn't  want  to  have  to 
cough  up  a  couple  o'  hunderd  now,  just  to  oblige. 
Especially  when  I  ain't  got'm.  Besides,  it  wasn't  her 
told  me  'twas  a  will.  'Twas  the  1'yer — which  is 
quite  another  pair  o'  shoes.  Anyhow,  I'm  goin'  up 
there  to  find  out  what  I'm  libel  for  in  case  she  can't 
pay,  like  Andy." 

Sam  saw  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  stand  aside 
and  let  her  go. 

The  moment  she  entered  the  room,  Martha  real 
ized  that  a  change  had  taken  place  in  "  ol'  lady 

340 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  241 

Crewe."  It  was  not  anything  she  could  "  put  her 
finger  on,"  as  she  would  have  expressed  it,  but  it 
was  there  unmistakably,  to  be  felt,  to  be — feared. 

At  the  sound  of  her  step  upon  the  floor,  the  little 
Madam  looked  up  quickly.  A  faint  smile  curled  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  for  a  second,  then  vanished. 

"  Well,  and  what's  brought  you  here,  after  all 
these  weeks?  I  thought  you  had  fallen  into  the 
well." 

"  I  been  stayin'  with  Miss  Claire,  I  should  say, 
Mrs.  Ronald.  An'  since  a  week  or  ten  days,  when 
I  went  home,  I  been  so  took  up  with  my  house  an' 
the  fam'ly  in  gener'l,  I  ain't  had  a  chance,"  Martha 
explained  eagerly. 

"  Never  mind  apologizing.  What's  been  the 
trouble  with  '  the  house  and  the  family  in  general '?  " 

"  They  got  kind  o'  loose-jointed  while  I  was  away, 
so's  I  had  to  lick'm  into  shape  again, — bring'm  up 
to  time.  An'  it  kep'  me  hoppin'." 

"  You  have  hopped  to  some  purpose,  I  hear.  You 
and  Dr.  Ballard  have  been  making  a  record  for  your 
selves." 

"  Me?  "  repeated  Martha,  amazed.  "  I  ain't  done 
nothin'.  But  pshaw!  I  forgot!  You're  just  tryin' 
to  take  a  rise  out  o'  me,  as  ushal." 

"A  what?" 

"  A  rise.  You  know  what  I  mean,  ma'am.  Tryin' 
to  take  my  measure.  That's  what  you're  mostly  up 
to — only  folks  ain't  on  to  you." 

Madam  Crewe  regarded  her  fixedly  for  a 
moment. 


242  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  Do  you  know,  Slawson,"  she  pronounced 
thoughtfully  at  length,  "  I've  an  idea  I'd  quite  enjoy 
some  of  the  things  you  say — //  you  spoke  English. 
The  trouble  is,  I  don't  understand  your  patois." 

Martha  smiled  blandly.  "  Askin'  your  pardon, 
for  the  liberty,  I  often  thought  the  same  thing  o' 
you.  I  don't  understand  your  what-you-may-call-it, 
either.  Nor  most  of  us  don't  understand  each 
other's,  an'  that's  what's  the  trouble  with  us,  I  guess. 
I  sometimes  wonder  how  we  get  along  as  good  as 
we  do,  with  the  gibberish  we  talk,  makin'  hash  o' 
what  we  mean,  an'  sometimes,  not  meanin'  anythin'." 

"  Right." 

"  An'  the  funny  part  is,  the  parties  we're  most 
likely  to  slip  up  on  is  them  we  love  the  most." 

"  Go  on." 

"  I  was  thinkin'  how,  when  my  girl  Cora  was  a 
baby  in  my  arms,  I  had  the  best  holt  o'  her  I'll  ever 
have,  prob'ly.  Her  an'  me  understood  each  other 
then.  But  now,  every  oncet  in  a  while,  I  might  as 
good  be  a  Dutchman,  an'  her  a  Figi  Injun  for  all 
we  make  o'  each  other.  I  try  to  hold  in  my  horses, 
an'  hang  on  to  all  the  patience  I  got  at  them  times, 
an'  I  guess  she  does  the  same,  an'  somehow,  we 
manage  to  rub  along,  but  you  may  take  it  from  me 
it's  some  of  a  scratch!  The  same  with  the  other 
childern,  as  they  grow  up.  Even  down  to  Sabina, 
who,  young  as  she  is,  has  a  mind  o'  her  own  an' 
sever'l  other  parties  to  boot." 

"  And  in  the  meantime,  you  and  your  husband  are 
going  without  common  comforts,  necessities — for 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  243 

those  very  children,  who  would  turn  about  and  rend 
you  at  the  first  opportunity." 

Martha  laughed.  "  Not  on  your  life  they  wouldn't 
rent  us — or  sell  us  either,  when  it  come  to  the  test. 
If  we  go  without  things,  to  give  them  a  better  start, 
we're  not  foolin'  ourselves  on  it,  believe  me!  We're 
makin'  a  Ai  investment.  We  don't  grumble  at  the 
taxes,  or  the  'sessments  or  all  the  rest  o'  the  acci 
dental  expenses — so  long  as  we  know  they're  good. 
It's  when  you'd  feel  you  got  a  bad  bargain  on  your 
hands,  like  it'd  be  poor  drainage,  or  hard  as  rocks, 
or  leakin'  and  shifty — it'd  be  then  you'd  hold  back, 
sendin'  good  money  after  bad.  An'  then  you'd  be 
wrong.  For  you  can  take  it  from  me,  there's  no 
child  so  bad  it  ain't  worth  savin'.  You  read  about'm 
in  the  papers,  how  they  steal  an'  lie  an'  so  forth,  an' 
when  all's  said  an'  done,  it's  like  pictures  you'd  get 
of  yourself — they  ain't  as  good  as  you  are,  bad  as 
you  are.  No,  you  can't  spoil  a  good  child,  an'  you 
can  help  a  bad  one.  So  small  credit  to  us,  Sam  an' 
I,  if  we  do  save.  It's  for  the  sake  of  our  own,  which, 
after  all,  we  know  the  stuff  they're  made  of.  Same 
as  you  and  Miss  Katherine." 

Madam  Crewe  was  silent. 

"  No,  it's  not  puttin'  money  in  the  childern,  makes 
me  sore,"  Martha  continued,  "  it's  when  we  scraped 
an'  screwed  a  few  dollars  together  for  a  nest-egg, 
an'  then,  in  the  turn  o'  a  hand,  it's  gone — to  pay  for 
somethin'  we  never  owed,  nor  no  one  got  any  good 
out  of,  but  the  wrong  fella." 

"  You  mean  you've  been  doing  something  fool- 


244  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

ish?  Speculating?  Losing  money?"  demanded 
Madam  Crewe  abruptly. 

"  My  husban'  signed  a  paper  for  his  brother,  an* 
it  let'm  in  for  all  we  had  put  by.  I  was  wonderin' 
if  the  paper  I  signed  here  early  in  the  summer,  I 
was  wonderin'  if  that  had  a  sting  in  it,  too?  An'  if 
so,  how  much?  " 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  I  mean,  the  paper  I  signed  here  the  time  Eunice 
Youngs  an'  me  both  set  our  names  to  it  together." 

;'  That  paper  was  my  will,  woman.  It  had  nothing 
to  do  with  you." 

"  That's  what  Sam  told  me,  but— I " 

"  You  could  not  be  called  upon  to  pay  one  copper 
because  of  what  you  did  that  day.  On  the  con 
trary No !  Never  mind !  What  have  you 

stood  to  lose  through  your  husband's  foo " 

"  He  wasn't  any  foolisher'n  me,"  Martha  antici 
pated  her  quickly. 

"  Your  husband's  misfortune,"  amended  Madam 
Crewe. 

"  Two-hunderd-and-fifty  dollars.  All  we  had 
saved.  But  we'll  set  about  right  over  again,  an'  if 
we  have  luck,  we  can  put  by  some  more.  An'  any 
how,  I'm  thankful  there  won't  be  another  such  call 
on  us.  That  was  what  I  kinda  had  on  my  mind 
when  I  come." 

"  Well,  you  can  shift  it  off  your  mind.  I  give  you 
my  word.  You  believe  me,  don't  you?" 

"  Yes'm." 

"  And  I  believe  you.     So  far  we  understand  each 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  245 

other.  Now,  Slawson,  I  am  going  to  prove  that  I 
trust  you.  I  am  going  to  ask  you  an  honest  question. 
I  want  an  honest  answer." 

"  Yes'm." 

"  You  are  the  mother  of  four  children.  You  have 
had  experience  in  bringing  them  up  right.  I  have 
had  one  child — one  grandchild.  I  have  brought  them 
both  up — wrong.  What's  the  trouble?" 

Martha  did  not  reply  at  once. 

Madam  Crewe  waited  patiently,  making  no  at 
tempt  to  hurry  her,  and  the  room  was  as  still  as  if  it 
had  been  empty.  At  last  Martha  spoke. 

"  O'  course  I  d'know  what  the  trouble  was,  if 
there  was  any,  with  your  boy.  But  it  seems  to  me, 
I  see  where  you  kind  o'  slipped  up  on  it  with  Miss 
Katharine." 

"Well?" 

"  Firstoff,  the  way  I  look  at  it,  childern  is  all 
selfish,  which  is  only  to  say  they're  human,  like  the 
rest  of  us.  They're  selfish  an'  they're  mischeevious, 
an'  they're  contrairy,  for,  when  all's  said  an'  done, 
they're — childern.  What  we  want  to  do  is,  learn'm 
not  to  be  selfish  an'  mischeevious  an'  contrairy.  An' 
how  can  we  learn'm  not  to  be  it,  if  we're  that  way 
ourselves?  There's  a  lady  I  usedta  work  out  for — 
(you  know  her — Mrs.  Sherman,  Mr.  Frank  Ron 
ald's  sister).  She  give  her  boy  every  bloomin'  thing 

money  could  buy .  But  she  never  give'm  a  square 

deal.  You  can  take  it  from  me,  what  a  young  'un 
respec's  is  a  square  deal.  He  mayn't  like  it,  but  he 
respec's  it.  An'  you  for  givin'  it  to'm. 


246  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  Now,  beggirT  pardon  for  the  liberty,  I  don't 
think  Miss  Katherine's  had  a  square  deal,  or  a  fair 
show.  She  ain't  had  what's  her  rights,  an'  she 
knows  it.  You  kep'  her  too  close  on — well,  lots  o' 
things.  Love  an'  a  free  foot  an',  oh,  lots  o'  things. 
She's  lived  so  long,  as  you  might  say,  from  hand  to 
mouth,  that  now  she  don't  know  which  is  her  hand 
an'  which  is  her  mouth.  An'  that  makes  her  look 
kinda  awkward  to  you.  What  I'd  rather  my  chil- 
dern'd  feel  about  me  than  anythin'  else  is,  that  I  see 
their  side  an'  try  to  treat'm  white.  All  the  cuddlin' 
an'  the  coddlin'  in  creation  won't  help  you,  if 
your  child  knows  it  ain't  havin'  justice.  An'  all 
the  strictness  an'  the  punishin'  won't  keep  it 
straight,  if  it  ain't  sure  there's  love  along  with  the 
lickin's. 

"  Miss  Katherine's  a  good  child.  You  couldn't  go 
far  wrong,  if  you  took  it  for  granted  she  was  goin' 
to  do  the  right  thing,  like  you  are  yourself.  If  I 
was  you,  excuse  me  for  sayin'  it — if  I  was  you,  I'd 
kinda  open  up  to  Miss  Katherine.  She's  young. 
With  all  she's  so  tall  an'  han'some-lookin',  she  ain't 
learned  all  the  sense  there  is.  She  thinks,  the  same's 
the  rest  o'  the  kids,  that  the  only  reason  she  ain't 
got  the  world  for  the  askin'  is  because  her  '  mean  ol' 
fam'ly '  don't  want  her  to  have  no  fun.  Give  her 
a  chance.  Show  her  you  believe  in  her.  You  got 
to  believe  folks  believe  in  you,  to  do  your  best. 
Now,  take  you,  for  instance.  Your  talkin'  up  so 
quick  an'  sharp  as  you  do,  makes  most  parties  feel 
you're  kinda  hard  to  get  along  with.  But  my,  / 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  247 

get  along  with  you  first-rate,  because  I  ain't  fooled 
by  your  outsides.  I  know  your  insides  is  all  right, 
an'  that's  enough  for  me.  But  a  young  lady,  like 
Miss  Katherine,  she  wouldn't  know.  She's  got  to 
be  showed,  like  Sam  says  they  do  in  Missouri.  But, 
you  can  take  it  from  me,  you  wouldn't  have  to  show 
her  but  once.  There  1  I've  talked  a  blue  streak, 
an'  prob'ly  tired  you  all  out.  Only,  you  see,  when 
you  get  me  on  childern,  you  got  me  on  a  subjec's  my 
speciality,  as  you  might  say.  That  is,  I  try  to  make 
it  my  speciality,  like  Sam  does  cows  an'  pigs  an' 
farm-produc's  gener'ly,  now  he's  got  to  deal  with'm. 
Before  I  go,  can't  I  get  you  somethin',  or,  maybe, 
see  you  safe  in  bed?  " 

"  Bed?  "  echoed  Madam  Crewe  sharply.  "  Why 
do  you  suggest  bed  to  me?  Do  I  strike  you  as  be 
longing  there?  " 

"  Oh,  no'm !  "  lied  Martha  calmly.  "  I  wasn't 
thinkin'  o'  your  comfort,  so  much  as  mine.  It  kinda's 
got  to  be  a  habit  with  me  to  want  to  tuck  the  little 
ones  up  an'  cover'm  over,  'n'  know  they're  fixed  for 
a  good,  sound  sleep,  before  I  leave'm." 

Madam  Crewe  set  her  lips. 

"  Well,  Slawson,  it  won't  be  long  before  you  can 
do  that  for  me.  But  not  to-night.  Go  your  way 
now.  It's  growing  late.  But  come  again  soon. 
Very  soon,  you  understand?" 

"  Yes'm." 

On  her  way  out,  Martha  stopped  at  the  kitchen 
door. 

"  Say,   Eunice,"   she   accosted  that  placid  young 


248  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

woman  whom  she  found  cozily  toasting  her  toes 
before  the  grateful  warmth  of  the  range,  "  where's 
Miss  Katherine?  " 

"  I  d'know." 

"Who's  lookin'  after  the  little  Madam?" 

"Nobody  much,  lately.  Miss  Katherine  used  to, 
and  she  does  now,  when  she's  home,  but  she's  off, 
mostly,  'n'  I  have  all  I  can  do  getting  my  work 
done  up." 

"  Yes,  I  can  see  that,"  observed  Martha  dryly. 
"  Well,  I'm  comin'  to-morra  again.  You  can  tell 
Miss  Katherine.  But  in  the  meantime,  if  you  was 
plannin'  to  go  home  to-night,  donchcr.  Just  you 
stay  right  on  deck  here  all  of  the  time,  from  this  on, 
do  you  understand?  " 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  tell  you,  that's  why.  You  might  be 
needed  on  short  notice.  Now,  are  you  goin'  to  do 
as  I  say  or  ain't  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That's  a  good  girl.  An' — an'  if  I  should  be 
needed  for  anythin',  any  time,  just  you  come  for  me, 
quick  as  you  can  put,  be  it  day  or  night,  an'  I'll  drop 
everythin'  an'  come." 

Eunice  followed  her  to  the  doorstep. 

"  Say,  you  give  me  the  creeps,  Mrs.  Slawson." 

Martha  laughed.  "  Well,  I'm  glad  if  I  got  some 
kinda  move  on  you,  young  lady.  You  certaintly  need 
it." 

But  as  she  went  her  way  home,  Martha  was  in 
no  laughing  mood. 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  249 

"  I  got  the  black  dog  on  my  shoulder,  for  fair," 
she  muttered,  hurrying  her  steps,  spurred  on  by  an 
unreasoning  longing  to  be  home,  to  see  Sam,  the 
children,  even  Ma. 

Long  before  she  reached  the  Lodge,  she  saw  the 
light  from  the  sitting-room  lamp  streaming  out 
genially  into  the  chill  dusk  of  the  early  autumn  even 
ing.  It  had  a  reassuring  welcome  in  it  that  fairly  re 
established  her  with  the  world  on  the  old  terms  of 
good-cheer  and  common-sense  optimism.  The  broad, 
benevolent  smile  for  which  Madam  Crewe  had  so 
often  derided  her,  was  on  her  face  as  she  turned  the 
knob  of  the  sitting-room  door,  pushed  it  open.  A 
second,  and  the  smile  was  there  no  longer. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Martha  asked,  looking 
from  Ma  to  Mrs.  Peckett,  from  Mrs.  Peckett  to 
Sam  Slawson,  in  a  puzzled,  wondering  way. 

Nobody  answered. 

Ma  sat  cowering  in  her  accustomed  place.  Mrs. 
Peckett,  deeply  flushed,  was  standing  near  the  win 
dow,  while  Sam,  towering  over  all,  showed  a  livid, 
threatening  face,  the  like  of  which  Martha  had  never 
seen  in  all  the  years  of  their  life  together. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  she  repeated. 

Again  the  question  went  unanswered,  but  after  a 
moment,  her  husband,  with  a  gesture,  bade  her  close 
the  entry-door. 

"  Now,  what  is  the  matter?  For  the  love  o'  Mike, 
one  of  you  say !  "  she  demanded  for  the  third  time, 
after  she  had  obeyed. 


250  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

The  sharp  ring  of  insistence  in  her  voice  seemed 
to  pluck  an  answer  out  of  Ma. 

"  As  Heaven's  me  witness,  Martha,  I  meant  no 
harm,"  she  whimpered  peevishly. 

"Well?  "probed  Martha. 

"  But  to  see  me  own  son  castin'  black  looks  at  me, 
as  if  he'd  slay  me " 

"  Tell  me  what  you've  done,  never  mind  about 
Sam!" 

"  The  day  I  first  see  you  writin'  one  o'  them  let 
ters,  Martha " 

"What  letters?" 

Sam's  fist  came  down  on  the  table-top  with  the 
force  of  a  sledge-hammer. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Ma !  By  God !  I  won't  have 
my  wife's  ears  soiled  with  your  dirty  gossip.  I've 
listened  to  you  myself  long  enough,  too  long.  I'd 
not  have  done  it,  even  so,  except  for  the  need  there 
is  to  stop  your  scandal-mongering — yours  and  this 
woman's  here." 

Martha  laid  a  restraining  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  Why,  Sam !  What  ails  you  ?  "  she  asked  in  won 
der.  "  I  never  seen  you  the  like  o'  this  before.  Let 
Ma  speak.  She  was  sayin'  about  letters.  What 
letters?" 

The  muscles  in  Sam's  jaws  twitched  visibly  beneath 
his  tense  skin.  As  Martha  looked  at  him,  she  seemed 
scarcely  to  recognize  him  for  the  man  who  was  her 
husband.  Suddenly,  from  out  of  the  dim  recesses 
of  her  memory,  emerged  a  line  she  had  heard  quoted 
in  some  far-off,  vague  time  and  association,  when 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  251 

she  had  not  consciously  taken  note  of  it.  "  Beware 
the  fury  of  a  patient  man!  "  Now  she  understood 
what  the  words  meant. 

"  If  my  wife  must  know  this  disgraceful  thing,  it's 
I  will  tell  her,"  he  spoke  so  low,  his  words  were 
barely  audible,  but  Ma  would  have  felt  easier  if  he 
had  thundered.  "  Now  listen,  you  two,  to  what  I 
say.  Never  for  one  second  have  I  doubted  my 
woman.  Never  would  I.  When  I  tell  you,  Martha, 
what  these  have  been  saying,  I  don't  do  so  for  you 
to  deny  it.  You're  my  wife.  I  believe  in  you — and 
would,  against  heaven  and — hell.  It  seems,  you've 
been  writing  letters  to  some  one,  lately,  which  God 
knows  you've  the  right  to  do  it.  But  these  two 
here  must  needs  spy  on  you,  and  sneak  about,  steal 
ing  the  stray  bits  of  scribbling  you  thought  you'd 
destroyed  and  thrown  away.  They  gathered  them 
up,  and,  when  your  back  was  turned,  pieced  them 
together,  to  send  to  me  with  an  anonymous  letter — 
only  I  suspicioned  something  was  afoot,  and  watched, 
and  to-day  I  caught  them  at  it.  My  God!  There 
ought  to  be  a  separate  fire  in  hell  as  punishment  for 
such  damned  muck-raking!  " 

"  Sam !  "  entreated  Martha. 

"  Suppose  you  have  written  Gilroy,  who,  none 
knows  better  than  I,  how  once  he  wanted  to  marry 
you,  and  how  you  turned  him  down  for  me.  Suppose 
you  have  written  to  Peter  Gilroy,  and  Peter  Gilroy 
has  written  to  you " 

"  I  have,  Sam,  an' — he  has,"  Martha  confessed 
slowly. 


252  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  Surely  you'd  the  right  to  do  it,  and  I'd  be  the  last 
to  question  you." 

Martha  gave  him  a  long  look. 

"  Did  you  say  Ma  an'  Mrs.  Peckett  got  a-holt  o' 
my  letters  to  Gilroy?" 

Sam  nodded. 

"  Did  they  give  you  the  letters?  " 

Sam  thrust  a  clinched  fist  toward  her.  It  was  full 
of  crumpled  scraps. 

With  patient  care  Martha  smoothed  out  the  first 
tattered  shred  that  came  to  hand.  Laboriously  she 
read  it  aloud. 

"  '  I  knew  what  was  in  your  heart  when  you  ast 
me  so  will  rite  as  orphan  as  I  can  and  no  other  soul 
will  no.  Love.  All  yours — MARTHA." 

She  looked  up  to  meet  her  husband's  eyes. 

"  Yes,  I  wrote  that,  Sam,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Peckett's  chin,  gradually  lifting,  at  last  al 
most  regained  its  habitual  level. 

"  You  see,"  she  observed  suavely,  "  I'm  not  a  liar, 
Mr.  Slawson.  And  I'm  not  the  other  things  you  have 
called  me  to  your  shame — not  mine.  But  I  bear 
you  no  malice,  nor  Mrs.  Slawson  either.  I'm  not 
that  kind  of  person.  I'm  a  Christian  woman,  trying 
to  do  my  duty." 

"  Damn  your  duty!  "  exclaimed  Sam  hoarsely. 

"  The  only  thing  is,"  Martha  interposed,  hasten 
ing  to  cover  her  husband's  unaccustomed  profanity. 
'  The  only  thing  is,  these  bits  here,  as  I  look'm  over, 
ain't  from  letters  I  wrote  to  Peter  Gilroy.  They're 
from  letters  I  wrote  to — another  man." 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  253 

Still  Sam  did  not  flinch. 

Martha  took  a  deep  breath. 

"  Won't  you  take  a  chair,  Mrs.  Peckett?  An'  I'll 
sit,  too.  An'  so  will  you,  Sam.  So  long's  we  got  on 
this  subjec',  we  better  come  to  a  clear  understandin'. 
That's  always  the  best  way.  As  I  said  at  the  start, 
Sam,  I  have  been  writin'  to  Gilroy,  an'  he's  been 
writin'  to  me." 

She  leaned  from  her  chair  to  where  her  sewing- 
machine  stood,  pulled  open  the  drawer  of  its  table, 
and  took  therefrom  a  couple  of  thin  envelopes  tied 
about  with  a  strand  of  black  darning-cotton. 

"  P'raps  I'd  ought  to  have  told  you  firstoff,  Sam, 
but  I  didn't,  because  I  thought  your  feelin's  might  be 
hurt,  an' — what  you  don't  know  won't  worry  you. 
The  day  after  you  had  the  news  of  Andy's  note 
comin'  doo,  I  got  a  letter  from  Gilroy.  I've  it  right 
here  now.  Also  mine  answerin'  it.  That's  to  say, 
a  copy  of  mine  answerin'  it.  The  reason  I  kep'  'm 
is,  Gilroy  is  with  Judge  Granville,  an' — well — when 
you're  dealin'  with  foxy  parties,  you  got  to  be  foxy 
to  match'm.  I  won't  read  you  the  letters.  If  you 
like,  you  can  read'm.  They're  here  for  you.  Gilroy 
said  'twas  him  held  your  note  for  Andy.  He'd  took 
it  over,  an'  he  was  writin'  me  to  say  that,  for  the 
sake  o'  the  days  gone  by,  he  wanted  to  do  me  a 
kindness.  He  said  he'd  let  you  off  the  note.  He  said, 
well  he  knew  what  a  poor  provider  you  was,  an'  we'd 
prob'ly  none  too  much,  if  we  had  anythin'  a  tall,  an', 
as  for  him,  he'd  plenty,  so  he'd  never  miss  it,  bein' 
as  he  is  a  bachelder,  an'  right-hand-man  to  Judge 


254  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

Granville,  an'  prosperin'  better  an'  better  every  day. 

"  I  wrote'm  back,  post-haste,  that  I  thanked'm 
kindly,  but  you'd  already  sent  the  money  to  Andy. 
Such  bein'  the  case,  I  couldn't  o'  course  take  him  at 
his  word  to  let  you  off  the  note,  but  knowin'  me 
so  well  as  he'd  used  to,  he'd  know  that  I'd  like  nothin' 
better  than  take  money  off'n  a  friend  who  meant  so 
kindly  by  me  as  his  letter  showed  he  did.  Bein'  that 
kind  of  a  friend,  I  said,  I  knew  he'd  like  to  hear 
you're  doin'  grand — you're  right-hand-man  to  Mr. 
Ronald,  an'  we've  all  we  need  an'  more,  too,  an' 
prosperin'  better  an'  better  every  day. 

"  I  took  my  letter  to  Miss  Claire,  before  ever  I 
sent  it  off,  to  make  sure  it  was  all  right,  an'  Gilroy'd 
know  what  I  meant.  Miss  Claire  laughed  when  she 
was  through  readin'  it.  She  said,  it  was  surely  all 
right,  but  what  he'd  read  between  the  lines  had  illus 
trations,  whatever  that  means.  Anyhow,  it  stirred 

up  Gilroy  somethin'  fierce,  an' "  Martha 

paused,  the  blood  surged  up  to  her  face  in  a  tide. 
14  He  wrote  to  me  again.  A  whole  lot  o'  love-sick 
trash.  I  sent  his  letter  back  to'm  (me  keepin'  a 
copy)  with  just  a  gentle  hint  o'  warnin'  to  the  effec' 
that  if  ever  he  done  the  like  again,  I'd  tell  you  on'm, 
an'  we'd  both  of  us  come  down  to  New  York  by  the 
first  train,  an'  take  a  turn  out  of'm — first  you,  an' 
then  me  on  your  leavin's.  Here's  the  whole  co- 
respondence,  Sam.  I'm  glad  to  get  rid  of  it.  It 
was  clutterin'  up  my  machine-drawer.  But,  p'raps, 
before  you  take  it,  to  lock  it  away — Mrs.  Peckett 
an'  Ma  would  like  to  examine  it," 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  255 

Mrs.  Peckett  shook  her  head. 

"  Then  you're  satisfied  I  ain't  a  callyope?  "  Mar 
tha  asked  her. 

"  A  what?"  demanded  Sam  sharply. 

"  A  callyope.  One  o'  them  things  whistles  on  a 
boat,  which,  every  oncet  in  a  while  we'd  hear'm  on 
the  river,  down  home.  Likewise,  they  mean  co- 
qwette." 

"  You  mean  siren?" 

"  Yes.  Sure.  They're  called  both  ways.  Madam 
Crewe  says  all  women  are  sirens.  Then  you're  satis 
fied  I  ain't  a  siren,  Mrs.  Peckett?  " 

Mrs.  Peckett  inclined  her  head,  smiling  with  easy 
patronage. 

Martha  regarded  her  narrowly  for  a  moment. 

u  I  see  you  ain't  satisfied!  " 

"  I  certainly  am,  so  far  as  Mr.  Gilroy  is  concerned, 
but " 

Sam  got  upon  his  feet  in  a  manner  to  cause  Mrs. 
Peckett  to  come  to  a  sudden  halt. 

"  I  know  what  she  means,  Sam.  Keep  cool,  an'  let 
me  handle  this,  which  I'm  the  only  one  can,  anyhow. 
You'd  like  to  know  the  name  o'  the  party  I  wrote 
them  letters  to,  you  an'  Ma  amused  yourselves 
playin'  puzzles  with?  Well,  I'll  tell  you  his  name. 
It's  Dr.  Ballard,  an'  even  you  couldn't  be  so  much  of 
a  looney  as  think  Dr.  Ballard  would  give  a  second 
thought  to  the  likes  o'  me,  that  I'd  be  writin'  love- 
letters  to'm,  much  less  him  wastin'  time  to  read'm, 
let  alone  write  me  back. 

"  Before  he  went  away,  Dr.  Ballard  told  me,  he'd 


256  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

a  likin'  for  this  place  an'  every  mother's  son  in  it, 
which,  /  s'pose,  that  means  you,  too,  an'  he  ast 
would  I  write'm,  to  tell  how  things  was  goin'  on,  an' 
if  Miss  Claire  an'  the  baby  was  gettin'  on,  an'  how 
Buller  was  comin'  along.  I  promised  I  would.  An' 
I  kep'  my  promise,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  keep  on  keepin' 
it.  Any  objection?" 

Mrs.  Peckett  signified  she  had  none. 

"  Then  all  that  remains  is  to  say  good-by,"  said 
Martha  gravely,  rising  and  standing  with  quiet  dig 
nity  beside  her  husband. 

Mrs.  Peckett  took  a  step  toward  the  door.  Then 
abruptly  she  turned  and  extended  her  hand  to 
Martha. 

Sam  Slawson  shook  his  head.  "  No,  you  don't!  " 
he  forbade  decidedly. 

"  I  guess  we  better  wait  a  while,  an'  see  how  we 
feel  about  each  other  later,"  Martha  explained  with 
out  animus.  "  My  husban'  says,  *  No,  you  don't ! ' 
so'  o'  course  that  settles  it  for  the  present,  any 
how.  It's  a  kind  o'  pity  things  has  come  to  this  pass, 
for  I  don't  like  to  be  on  the  outs  with  anybody. 
But  you  certaintly  took  a  risk,  Mrs.  Peckett.  If 

my  husban'  had  been  like  some  men !  I  don't 

see  how  you  dared  do  it,  knowin'  you're  a  woman, 
yourself,  with  a  man  o'  your  own.  P'raps  'twas  be 
cause  you'd  set  out  to  make  me  over,  that  you  hold 
me  so  cheap.  I  always  noticed  folks  is  never  so 
choice  o'  made-over  things.  They  think  the  best 
wear's  out  of'm  anyhow,  an'  it  don't  matter  if  they 
do  use'm  sort  o'  careless  now.  But  it  is  matter,  for 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  257 

it's  you'll  be  blamed  for  not  bein'  clean,  not  the  thing 
you've  dirtied.  Besides,  sometimes  a  made-over  will 
serve  you  better  than  new.  I  give  you  leave  to  re 
member  that,  Mrs.  Peckett." 

When  their  visitor  was  gone,  Ma  began  to  cry 
aloud. 

"  The  fear  is  in  me  heart.  I  haven't  a  limb  to 
move,  the  way  I'd  be  dreadin'  Sam's  punishin'  me !  " 
she  moaned,  rocking  backward  and  forward  in  her 
chair. 

"  He'll  not  punish  you,  Ma !  "  Martha  promised. 

Still  Sam  bent  stormy  brows  upon  his  mother. 

"  I'll  not  punish  you,"  he  said,  "  but  after  what's 
happened,  I  guess  we'll  all  feel  happier  if  you  make 
your  home  away  from  this." 

"  I'll  die  ere  ever  I'll  go  back  to  New  York  City 
to  live  wit'  the  likes  o'  them  as  don't  want  me !  " 
sobbed  the  old  woman  explosively. 

"  A  Home,  then.  I'll  see  you  settled  in  a  good 
Home." 

Ma  looked  into  his  stern  eyes,  saw  no  relenting 
there,  and  turned  to  Martha.  She  held  up  her  hands 
with  the  mute  appeal  of  a  child  begging  to  be  carried. 

And  Martha  nodded.    She  would  carry  her. 

"  For,"  she  explained  to  Sam,  later,  "  Ma's  only 
a  child,  after  all.  With  no  more  sense,  or  as  much 
as  Sabina.  Let  her  stay,  Sam." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

TV/TARTHA  had  been  gone  but  a  quarter  of  an 
•*•*-*•  hour  or  so,  when  Katherine  appeared  at  her 
grandmother's  door. 

It  had  become  a  purely  perfunctory  act,  this  paus 
ing  at  the  sitting-room  threshold,  and  asking,  "  Can 
I  do  anything  for  you,  grandmother?"  To-night 
the  answer  was  startlingly  out  of  the  ordinary. 

'  Yes.     Come  in.    I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

The  girl  came  forward,  outwardly  calm,  inwardly, 
so  shaken  with  a  morbid  dread  of  what  might  await 
her,  that  she  dared  not  venture  to  speak,  for  fear 
her  voice  would  betray  her. 

"  Light  the  lamp." 

Her  uncertain  fingers  fumbled  the  first  match,  till 
it  dropped  to  the  floor.  The  second  went  out,  before 
she  could  guide  it  to  the  wick.  Only  at  the  third 
attempt  was  she  successful — and  she  knew  her  grand 
mother  despised  clumsy  inefficiency. 

"  Where  have  you  been?  " 

"  To  the  Ronalds.  We're  getting  up  a  course  of 
lectures,  don't  you  remember,  for  the  natives — to  run 
through  the  winter." 

"  The  natives  to  run  through  the  winter?  " 

Katherine  shrank  back  hypersensitively  from  the 
foolish  banter. 

258 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  259 

"  I  am  doing  the  work.  Mr.  Ronald  is  giving  the 
money." 

"  A  very  proper  arrangement." 

"  It  has  kept  me  busy.  I  hope  you  haven't  felt 
neglected." 

"  Not  in  the  least.  As  usual,  everything  has  been 
done  for  me  that  had  to  be  done." 

The  little  old  woman  was  trying  her  best  to  act 
on  Martha's  advice,  but  her  tongue,  sharpened  by 
years  of  skilful  practice,  could  not  sheathe  its  keen 
edge  all  at  once.  When  next  she  spoke,  it  was  with 
so  studied  a  mildness  that  Katherine  stared  at  her, 
wondering. 

"You  probably  met  Slawson  as  you  came  in? 
You  must  have  passed  her  on  the  road." 

"  No,  the  Ronalds  brought  me  home  in  their  car. 
We  drove  out  along  the  mountain-road,  to  see  the 
foliage.  We  came  back  the  other  way." 

"  Well,  get  your  things  off  now.  And  when 
you've  had  your  dinner,  come  back  to  me.  Or — no ! 
I'll  ring!" 

It  darted  through  Katherine's  mind  that  her  grand 
mother  spoke  with  singular  self-repression.  Again 
she  regarded  her  with  puzzled  eyes.  Such  modera 
tion  could  only  breed  suspicion,  in  a  mind  grown 
abnormal  in  solitary  confinement. 

The  girl  ate  no  dinner. 

It  was  late  before  she  heard  the  silver  tinkle  that 
sounded,  in  her  ears,  like  the  crack  of  doom. 

It  was  well  her  grandmother  bade  her,  with  a 


260  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

gesture,   to   sit  down.     Her  quaking  knees  would 
hardly  have  borne  her,  standing. 

"I'm  a  coward!  A  poor,  weak  coward!"  she 
confessed  to  herself  bitterly,  resenting  her  weakness, 
yet  apparently  powerless  to  control  it. 

"  I've  been  thinking  over  what  you  told  me,  and 
I  have  concluded  to  change  my  tactics  with  regard 
to  you,"  the  old  woman  plunged  in,  without  pre 
amble.  "  Perhaps  I've  made  a  mistake  in  the  past, 
keeping  from  you  things  you  should  have  known. 
All  I  can  say  is,  I  acted  in  good  faith,  for  your 
best." 

Katherine  smiled  faintly.  "  Isn't  that  what  par 
ents  always  say  when  they  punish?  " 

Madam  Crewe  raised  her  chin  in  her  old  supercili-^ 
ous  manner,  then  quickly  lowered  it. 

"  I  don't  know.  I've  had  no  experience.  I  never 
punished.  Perhaps  that  is  where  I  made  my  mis 
take." 

Again  Katherine's  lips  curled  slightly  in  a  wry 
smile. 

"  You  need  have  no  regrets  there,  grandmother. 
You  have  nothing  to  make  up  to  me  on  that  score." 

"  You  mean  I  have  punished  you  ?  " 

"  Oh — very  thoroughly." 

"  Curious !    I  can't  see  myself  doing  it." 

"  I  can't  see  you  not  doing  it!  " 

Madam  Crewe,  in  her  turn,  stared,  surprised. 
Katherine  was  acting  out  of  all  character,  in  quite  a 
new,  unaccountable  fashion. 

'*  I  suppose  I  must  take  your  word  for  it,"  her 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  261 

grandmother  admitted  with  an  odd  sigh.  "  Be  kind 
enough  not  to  interrupt.  You  know  the  story  of 
the  man  I  did  not  marry.  Now  you  shall  hear  the 
story  of  the  man  I  did  marry. 

"  My  father  took  me  abroad  after — after  the  Bal- 
lard  fiasco.  I  did  not  care  where  I  went,  what  I  did. 
I  was  quite  broken  down.  Quite,  as  Slawson  would 
say,  '  broken  up.'  Nothing  made  any  difference  to 
me.  Everything  was  distasteful. 

"  One  day,  in  London,  my  father  brought  a  young 
man  to  me,  introducing  him  as  my  future  husband. 
That  was  all  there  was  to  it  I  neither  objected, 
nor  approved.  I  had  no  mother.  I  did  not  under 
stand. 

"  We  were  married  almost  immediately — my  new 
lover  was  very  eager.  He  urged  haste.  Almost  im 
mediately  I  discovered  that  my  father  had  been  duped 
by  a  cheap  adventurer,  a  man  without  heart  or  con 
science.  A  poor,  weak  wretch  of  profligate  habits, 
a  liar,  a  cheat.  He  had  posed  in  society  as  a  man 
of  means,  heir  to  a  title.  He  was  nothing  of  the 
sort.  All  those  he  had  brought  to  stand  sponsor  for 
him,  were  hirelings  paid  to  mislead  us. 

"  For  a  long  time  I  tried  to  hide  the  truth  from 
my  father.  When,  at  last,  he  learned  it,  it  killed 
him.  He  died  in  a  fit  of  apoplexy,  brought  on  by 
rage  against  the  man  who  had  gulled  him. 

"  My  fortune  was  large.  My  husband  squandered 
a  considerable  part,  before  I  had  sense  to  take  steps 
to  save  it.  He  was  a  spendthrift.  He  forged  my 
name  on  checks,  he  stole  from  my  purse.  I  presume 


262  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

you  wonder  why  I  did  not  rid  myself  of  him?  In 
those  days  divorces  were  not  the  casual  things  they 
are  now.  A  woman  divorced,  was  a  woman  dis 
graced.  Moreover,  there  was  the  boy.  For  his  sake 
I  bore,  forbore.  For  his  sake,  I  fought  to  save  my 
fortune.  He  was  my  one  hope.  He  was  to  make 
up,  by  his  perfect  Tightness,  for  all  that  was  wrong 
in  my  universe.  I  suppose  I  spoiled  him.  Slawson 
says  you  can't  spoil  a  good  child.  If  that  is  so,  my 
boy  must  have  been  bad  from  the  beginning.  This 
I  know,  he  was  always  his  father's  child.  He  had 
none  of  me  in  him.  As  a  baby,  he  was  full  of  soft, 
coaxing  ways.  It  was  torture  to  see  them  gradually 
becoming  smooth,  calculating,  treacherous. 

"Sit  still!  I  know  he  was  your  father — but  he 
was  my  son  first.  I  used  to  pray,  night  after  night, 
that  he  might  not  live  to  follow  in  his  father's  foot 
steps.  Useless.  The  taint  was  too  strong. 

"  He  married  your  mother  precisely  as  your  grand 
father  had  married  me.  I  would  have  prevented  it, 
if  I  had  known.  It  was  all  so  carefully,  secretly 
arranged  that  I  did  not  know.  Your  mother  was 
sacrificed,  as  I  had  been.  Her  fortune  was  swept 
away.  She  died  when  you  were  hardly  more  than 
a  baby.  I  was  glad  when  she  died.  She  was  out 
of  it. 

'  Your  father  brought  you  to  me  to  be  cared  for. 
The  sight  of  you,  in  your  little  black  ribbons,  was 
a  constant  reproach.  I  was  afraid  to  look  into  your 
eyes,  for  fear  I  should  see  in  them  what  had  killed 
your  mother. 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  263 

"  One  thing  I  determined,  that  you  were  not  to 
be  spoiled.  I  would  bring  you  up  as  well  as  I  could. 
I  had  failed  with  your  father.  I  would  try  a  dif 
ferent  method  with  you.  I  repeat,  I  acted  in  good 
faith.  I  did  my  best. 

"  Your  father  died  suddenly — no  matter  how — 
enough  that  'twas  disgracefully.  Within  a  twelve 
month,  I  was  a  widow.  Behind  my  crepe  I  humbly 
thanked  Almighty  God. 

"  When  I  came  to  settle  up  my  estate,  I  found 
myself  practically  impoverished.  That  is,  every 
thing  had  been  so  attached,  encumbered,  I  could  get 
no  benefit  from  it.  My  income  must  be  turned  back 
to  the  estate,  to  save  it.  My  only  salvation — yours 
— was  to  cut  myself  off  from  all  but  a  pittance,  until 
every  claim  had  been  met,  and  I  stood  free  and  quit. 
That  has  been  done.  I  owe  no  man  anything.  I 
have  sacrified  much,  but  not  my  integrity,  and  not 
one  acre,  one  security  belonging  to  the  property  your 
great-grandfather  left  me,  rescued  from  my  husband. 
It  is  all  intact.  Your  inheritance " 

Katherine  was  on  her  feet  in  an  instant. 

"  Inheritance !  "  she  blazed.  "  You  have  just  told 
me  what  my  inheritance  is !  Fraud,  lies,  treachery — 
everything  that  is  base.  What  does  money  matter 
to  a  creature  like  me?  I  can  never  get  away  from 
what  I  am.  As  you  say,  'the  taint  is  too  strong  I' 
Hush!  /  am  speaking  now.  And  I'm  going  to 
speak,  and  you've  got  to  listen !  For  once  in  my 
life,  I  am  going  to  have  my  say — I'm  going  to  forget 
I  am  young  and  you  are  old,  and  I'm  going  to  let 


264  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

you  know  what  I  have  been  feeling,  thinking,  being 
all  these  years,  when  you've  thought  I  was  a  tame 
thing  you  could  order  about,  and  scold  and  ridicule, 
to  the  top  of  your  bent. 

"  I  know,  now,  why  I  was  a  lonely,  unloved  child. 
I've  always  wondered,  before,  for  I  tried  to  be  good 
— even  when  I  was  too  much  of  a  baby  to  be  any 
thing  else.  I  know,  now,  why  you  watched  me  out 
of  the  corners  of  your  eyes,  as  if  you  were  waiting 
for  me  to  try  to  deceive  you,  in  some  way.  You 
were  waiting  for  my  '  inheritance '  to  crop  out.  How 
could  I  ever  have  been  anything,  but  at  my  worst 
with  you  ?  How  could  I  be  clever,  when  you  insisted 
I  was  dull?  How  could  I  be  myself,  when  you  con 
demned  me,  by  your  fears,  to  be  my  grandfather, 
and  my  father?  What  you  waited  for,  came.  Of 
course  it  would.  I  stole,  I  lied.  I  was  a  coward. 
'  The  taint  was  too  strong! ' 

"  But  let  me  tell  you  this,  it  needn't  have  been 
so.  I  could  have  been  saved  if,  when  I  was  a 
child Oh,  I  can't  bear  it!  I  can't  bear  it!  " 

She  shrank  together  into  a  wretched  heap  on  the 
floor,  her  head  bowed  on  her  knees. 

Madam  Crewe  gazed  at  her,  a  strange  shadow 
creeping  over  her  face.  As  if  to  herself,  she  mur 
mured,  u  That  is  what  your  grandfather  used  to 
plead — and  your  father.  Whenever  they  were  dis 
comforted,  they  always  said  they  couldn't  bear  it. 
So  they  didn't  bear  it.  7 — and  others — had  to  bear 
it." 

The  sound  of  her  voice,  low  as  it  was,  brought 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  265 

Katharine  to  her  feet.  All  the  pent-in  passion  of 
her  life,  breaking  loose  now,  beat  mercilessly  down 
upon  the  defenseless  old  woman  before  her.  In 
some  unaccountable  way,  the  two  seemed  to  have 
changed  places.  It  was  she  who  dominated,  her 
grandmother  who  submitted. 

The  lamp  burned  low,  sending  out  a  rank  odor  that 
filled  the  room.  The  clock  struck  out  three  deep  bell- 
notes. 

Katherine,  shuddering,  sobbing,  felt  herself  caught 
up  in  the  whirlwind-strength  of  a  new  impulse.  She 
turned  her  back  on  her  grandmother.  A  moment, 
and  the  door  of  her  own  chamber  shut  her  in. 

Madam  Crewe's  head  fell  forward  upon  her 
breast. 

*  •  •  •  •  •  * 

The  clock  had  just  struck  half-past  five,  when 
Martha  groped  her  way  downstairs. 

She  had  her  work  "  cut  out  for  her,"  as  she  would 
have  expressed  it,  and  must  start  in  promptly.  She 
had  just  kindled  a  new  fire  in  the  kitchen-range,  and 
was  about  to  set  out  for  the  henhouse,  and  cow- 
barn,  when  a  step  on  the  porch  brought  her  up 
standing. 

In  a  second  she  had  crossed  the  room,  swung  open 
the  kitchen-door. 

"  Miss  Katherine !  "  she  exclaimed,  in  the  breath 
less  undertone  of  one  brought  face  to  face  with  a 
'dread  turned  reality. 

Katherine  seemed  to  understand  without  need  of 
explanation.  She  shook  her  head. 


266  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  No — grandmother's  not  sick.  Grandmother  is 
all  right.  But — I'm  going  away.  I've  left  home. 
I'll  never  go  back !  Never !  We  had  it  out  together 
last  night,  grandmother  and  I.  Last  night,  and  all 
night.  I'll  never  cross  that  doorsill  again,  if  I  have 
to  beg  in  the  streets,  or — starve." 

Martha  quietly  closed  the  door,  led  Katherine  to 
a  chair,  then  set  the  water-kettle  on  the  stove,  with 
out  asking  a  question,  saying  a  word. 

"  I've  come  straight  to  you,  Mrs.  Slawson,"  the 
girl  continued  breathlessly,  "  because  you're  my  only 
friend  in  the  place.  The  only  one  who  knows  any 
thing  about  the  kind  of  life  I've  led,  and  would 
understand." 

"  But,  I  don't  understand,"  Martha  corrected  her. 
"  I  thought — that  is  to  say,  I  somehow  or  other,  got 
the  idea  the  two  of  youse  was  goin'  to  get  along 
better,  after  this.  I  can't  think  how  things  could  'a' 
got  to  this  pass  when,  the  last  I  heard,  everything 
looked  so  promisin'." 

Katherine  took  her  up  quickly.  "  I  don't  know 
what  you  mean  by  promising.  The  day  Mrs.  Ronald 
was  taken  sick,  I  told  grandmother  about — about — 
what  I'd  done.  You  know — the  pocket — with  the 
letters.  And  she  treated  me  like  a  dog.  Oh,  she 
was  cruel.  Sent  me  away,  out  of  her  sight,  as  if 
I'd  been  something  hateful  to  her — which  I  am. 
She  hasn't  spoken  to  me  since,  until  last  night,  except 
to  give  some  order.  I  don't  know  how  you  can  say 
you  thought  things  '  looked  promising.' ' 

Martha  measured  put  two  heaping  tablespoonfuls 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  267 

of  freshly-ground  coffee  into  the  percolator,  and  set 
it  on  the  stove. 

"  I  saw  your  gran'ma  yesterday,  Miss  Katherine," 
she  explained.  "  Her  an'  me  had  a  long  talk,  an', 
from  what  she  dropped,  I  got  the  impression  she 
meant  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf  two-wards  you,  if 
you'd  give  her  the  chance." 

"  Did  she  say  she  meant  to?" 

"  No,  not  eggsackly  '  say'    But " 

"  Well,  then,  I  guess  you  were  mistaken.  Or, 
perhaps  she  meant  to  try  to  do  better  by  me,  and, 
when  the  time  came,  she  just  couldn't,  that's  all.  I'll 
give  her  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  But  no  matter 
what  she  meant,  no  matter  what  /  did,  the  end  of  it 
was,  we  had  a  terrible  time  and — I've  come  away  for 
-good." 

After  an  interval,  during  which  Martha  had 
quietly  relieved  Katherine  of  the  bag  she  clutched, 
she  set  before  her  a  cup  of  steaming,  fragrant 
coffee. 

Katherine  shook  her  head.  "  I  couldn't  touch  it. 
I'm  not  hungry." 

"Drink  it  down,  hungry  or  not!"  commanded 
Martha  authoritatively. 

Katherine  obeyed. 

'  You  must  have  been  at  the  house  late,  yesterday 
afternoon,"  she  said,  between  her  absent  sips.  "  For, 
I  wasn't  there,  and  I'd  been  at  home  all  day  except 
for  an  hour  or  so  toward  evening,  when  I  went  to 
the  Ronalds'.  When  I  came  in  grandmother  called 
me,  and,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  she  did  seem 


268  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

milder,  kinder.  She  told  me  to  take  my  dinner  and 
then,  after  dinner,  to  come  to  her.  It  always  scares 
me  when  grandmother  summons  me  to  appear  before 
her — like  a  pensioner,  or  a  criminal.  It's  always  been 
that  way,  ever  since  I  can  remember.  The  sight  of 
her,  sitting  there,  cold  and  distant  as  a  marble  image, 
always  freezes  me  to  ice.  I  can't  help  it.  I  know 
I'm  a  coward,  but  I  can't  help  it. 

"  I  couldn't  eat  my  dinner,  for  thinking  what  she 
had  to  say,  so,  by  the  time  I  went  up  to  her,  I  was 
all  of  a  tremble  inside,  though  I  probably  didn't 
show  it. 

"Then  she  told  me — told  me — about  her  life. 
About  my  grandfather — my  father.  If  you  knew 
what  I've  sprung  from,  Mrs.  Slawson,  you'd  turn 
me  out  of  your  house." 

"Rot!"  said  Martha,  "  askin'  pardon  for  the 
liberty." 

Katherine  went  on — "  Think  of  being  watched,  day 
after  day — always  under  suspicion. — Think  of  hav 
ing  some  one  always  being  in  fear  and  trembling  be 
cause  the  time'll  surely  come  when  you'll  show  what 
you've  sprung  from.  And,  of  course,  it  comes.  I 
did  the  things  my  grandfather  and  my  father  had 
done  before  me.  That  was  why,  when  I  told  her 
about  the  pocket,  she  sent  me  away  from  her.  The 
thing  she  had  dreaded,  had  happened." 

"  It  always  does,"  said  Martha. 

"  So  that's  what  I  am,"  the  girl  went  on  shud- 
deringly,  "  a  coward,  and  a  liar,  and  a  thief.  The 
child,  and  the  grandchild,  of  cowards,  thieves,  liars. 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  269 

There's  no  hope  for  me !  I  can  never  be  anything 
else." 

Martha's  hand  upon  her  shoulder  shook  her,  none 
too  gently. 

"  Say,  stop  that  nonsense,  Miss  Katherine.  Stop  it 
right  now,  before  you  say  another  word.  There 
ain't  any  truth  in  it,  to  begin  with,  an'  /  say  it's 
wicked  to  think  such  things.  Just  you  answer  me  a 
couple  o'  questions,  will  you?  " 

Martha's  unaccustomed  severity  startled  Kath 
erine  out  of  her  hysteria.  She  nodded  acquiescence. 

"  Why  did  you  tell  me,  firstoff,  when  you'd  took 
the  pocket?  " 

"  Because  I  loathed  myself  so.  I  couldn't  bear  it 
alone." 

"  Why  did  you  clap  the  name  o'  thief  to  yourself? 
Are  you  proud  o'  it?  " 

"  It's  the  truth.    I  have  to  tell  the  truth !  " 

"  Why  have  you?" 

"  Because  it's  right  to." 

"  Then,  on  your  own  say-so,  you  ain't  any  o'  those 
things  you  said.  Don't  you  see  you  ain't?  A  thief 
don't  hate  what  he  does,  so  he's  afraid  to  be  alone 
with  himself.  A  liar  don't  have  to  stick  to  the  truth, 
does  he?  A  coward  won't  stand  up,  an'  face  the 
music,  'cause  it's  right  to — not  so  you'd  notice  it, 
he  won't.  All  this  hangin'  on  to  your  antsisters' 
shirt-tails  an'  apern-strings,  for  good,  or  for  bad, 
makes  me  sick  on  my  back.  I'm  tired  seein'  crooked 
sticks  tryin'  to  pull  glory  down  on  themselves  off'n 
what  they  call  their  Family-trees.  Don't  you  fool 


270  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

yourself.  It's  every  man  for  himself  these  days — 
thank  God!  It  don't  folia  you're  what  your  gran'pa 
is,  any  more'n  your  gran'ma.  You  got  a  mind  o' 
your  own,  an'  a  conscience  o'  your  own,  an'  if  you 
did,  in  a  way  o'  speakin',  lose  your  grip  on  yourself, 
an'  done  what  tempted  you — to  do  it  oncet,  ain't  to 
say  you'll  ever  do  it  again.  It's  just  the  very  reason 
why  you  won't  ever  do  it  again !  " 

Katherine  shook  her  head.  "  That  may  be  true. 
All  I  can  say  is,  it  doesn't  seem  true  to  me  now. 
Anyway,  I  can't  change  my  feeling  about  grand 
mother.  I  want  never  to  see  her  again.  She  hates 
me  and — I 

"Now,  easy!  Go  easy,  Miss  Katherine.  What 
makes  you  think  the  oP  lady  hates  you?  " 

"  Everything  she  has  ever  done.  She's  never 
kissed  me  in  her  life,  that  I  can  remember." 

"  Kissin'  ain't  all  there  is  to  lovin'.  What  did 
your  gran'ma  want  to  save  her  money  for?  What 
did  she  scrimp  an'  screw  for,  after  bein'  used  to  live 

in  the  lap  o'  lucksherry  all  her  days ?  I'm  a 

ignorant  woman,  but  it  seems  to  me,  she  could  'a'  paid 
up  all  was  owin',  and  lived  off'n  her  capital,  an'  said 
to  herself:  'Hooray!  A  short  life,  an'  a  merry 
one  !  Let  the  grandchild  I  hate,  look  out  for  herself. 
What  do /care?'" 

"  Perhaps  she  don't  mind  saving  and  denying  her 
self,  any  more.  She's  got  used  to  it,"  suggested 
Katherine.  "  Maybe  she  likes  it." 

"  I  wouldn't  be  too  sure,"  Martha  admonished. 
"  Think  it  over." 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  271 

"  I  have  thought  it  over — and  over  and  over. 
Nothing  will  change  me.  I'll  not  go  back,  Mrs. 
Slawson." 

"  Where  are  you  goin'  ?  " 

"  To  Boston." 

"What  for,  to  Boston?" 

"  First,  to  tell  Dr.  Ballard  just  what  and  who  I 
am.  Grandmother  thought  it  was  lying  for  me  to 
hold  back  that  story,  when  I  should  have  made  a 
clean  breast  of  it,  at  once.  She  acts  as  if  she  had 
to  protect  Dr.  Ballard  against  me.  She  acts  as  if 
he  is  the  one  who's  dear  to  her  and  I'm  the  stranger. 
Well,  I'll  show  her!  I'd  never  marry  him  now,  if — 
if- 

"  An',  after  you  got  through  throwin'  down  Dr. 
Ballard?" 

"  I'll  go  somewhere  else.  To  another  town — and 
earn  my  living." 

"Doinf  what?" 

"  I  don't  know  yet.     But  the  way  will  open." 

"  You  bet  it  will.  Good  an'  big,  the  way'll  open," 
Martha  echoed  her  words  with  scoffing  emphasis. 
"  It'll  make  you  dizzy  lookin'  at  it  gapin'  at 
you !  " 

Katherine's  pale  cheeks  flushed.  "  I'm  not  a  fool, 
Mrs.  Slawson.  There  are  some  things  I  can  do,  as 
it  is.  I  can  learn  to  do  more." 

"  Certaintly.  There's  lots  o'  lovely  things  you 
can  do  in  this  world — //  you  don't  charge  anythin' 
for>m." 

Katherine  rose. 


272  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

"  I  came  to  you,  Mrs.  Slawson,  because  I  felt  you 
were  my  friend." 

"  So  I  am." 

"  I  came  to  you  because  I  knew  what  you'd  done 
for  the  Hinckley  girl.  I  want  you  to  do  the  same 
for  me.  There's  a  train  leaves  Burbank  Junction 
for  Boston  at  eleven-thirty-three.  Will  you  take  me 
over  there  in  your  motor?  " 

"No,  ma'am!" 

Katherine  stared  at  her,  out  of  astonished  eyes. 

"  No,  ma'am !  "  repeated  Martha.  "  When  I  took 
Ellen  Hinckley  to  Burbank,  it  was  outa  harm's  way. 
If  I  took  you  it'd  be  into  it.  Ellen  Hinckley  was  a 
poor,  weak  sister,  which  runnin'  away  was  all  there 
was  for  her.  You  are  strong  as  they  make'm,  an' 
stayin'  's  all  there  is  for  you.  Ellen  owed  it  to 
herself  to  leave  her  mother.  You  owe  it  to  yourself 
to  stand  by  yours." 

"  Then  I'll  go  to  Mr.  Ronald.  He'll  take  me- 
when  I  tell  him." 

"  Don't  you  believe  it.  An'  you  won't  tell'm 
either,  Miss  Katherine.  You're  too  proud,  an'  he's 
too  fair.  It  wouldn't  take  him  a  minute  to  tell  you, 
*  Stay  by  the  poor  little  ol'  lady,  till  she's  no  need 
o'  you  no  more,  which  it  won't  be  long,  now,  any 
how.  It  wouldn't  take'm  a  minute  to  tell  you  that, 
Miss  Katherine — not  for  Madam  Crewe's  sake — but 
for  yours." 

"  I'll  never  go  back,"  the  girl  reiterated  deter 
minedly.  "  Whatever  I  do,  I'll  never  go  back.  If 
you  won't  take  me  to  Burbank,  I'll  wait  here  at  the 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  273 

station,  for  the  trolley.  There'll  be  another  train 
out  sometime.  I'll  get  to  Boston  somehow." 

"  Miss  Katherine,"  Martha  pleaded,  but  the  girl 
stopped  her  with  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  It's  no  use,  Mrs.  Slawson.  I  feel  as  if  there 
were  nothing  but  ugliness  and  horror  in  all  the  world. 
It's  come  out — even  in  you!  " 

Martha  turned  her  face  away  quickly,  as  if  she 
had  been  struck. 

"  I've  not  gone  back  on  you,  Miss  Katherine. 
Take  my  word  for  it,  till  you  can  see  for  yourself 
what  I  say's  true.  You  think  everything's  ugly  now. 
That's  because  you  got  knocked,  same  as  if  it  was, 
flat  on  your  back.  You're  just  bowled  clean  over. 
You're  lookin'  at  things  upside  down.  But  let  me 
tell  you  somethin' — there's  been  good  in  all  the 
knocks  ever  I  got  in  my  life,  if  I  had  the  sense  to 
see." 

"  I  don't  believe  it!  "  said  Katherine  passionately. 

Martha  smiled.  "  Certaintly  you  don't,  at  the 
present  moment.  But  you  will,  in  the  course  o' 
time.  Why,  the  hardest  knock  a  party'd  land  you, 
right  between  the  eyes,  you'd  see  stars." 

Katherine  turned  quickly  away,  stooped  to  pick 
up  her  bag,  and  without  another  word,  passed  to  the 
door. 

"  Say,  Miss  Katherine,"  called  Martha,  "  I  want 
to  tell  you  somethin'.  Now,  listen !  Dr.  Ballard, 

he  tol'  me  oncet "  she  was  talking  to  empty  air. 

Katherine  had  gone. 

Martha  followed  as  far  as  the  doorstep,  to  look 


274  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

after  the  girlish  figure  marching  so  resolutely  out  into 
the  cold  gray  of  the  early  autumn  morning.  She 
stood  watching  it,  until  it  passed  out  of  sight,  around 
the  bend  of  the  road  that  led  to  the  village. 

Then,  with  all  her  day's  work  still  before  her, 
Martha  Slawson  deliberately  sat  down  to  think. 

"  Between  the  two  o'  them,  they've  made  a  mess 
of  it,  for  fair,"  she  told  herself.  "  But  I'll  give 
the  oP  lady  this  credit,  I  do  b'lieve  she  started  in 
wantin'  to  do  the  right  thing.  The  trouble  with  her 
is,  she  waited  too  long,  an'  in  the  meantime,  Miss 
Katherine's  been  bottlin'  in  her  steam,  an'  gettin' 
bitterer  an'  bitterer,  till  all  it  took  was  the  first  word 
from  the  little  Madam,  to  bust  her  b'iler,  an'  send 
the  pieces  flyin'.  Miss  Katherine  says  they  talked 
all  night.  I  bet  'twas  her  done  the  talkin'.  I  can 
jus'  see  her  takin'  the  bit  between  her  teeth,  an'  lettin' 
rip,  for  all  she  was  worth,  same's  Sam  wipin'  up  the 
floor  with  Mrs.  Peckett,  which  he'd  never  raised  his 
hand  to  a  soul  in  his  life  before,  an'  prob'ly  never 
will  again.  Just  for  oncet  the  both  of'm,  him  an' 
her,  had  their  fling,  more  power  to'm !  In  the  mean 
time,  the  fat's  in  the  fire.  If  I'd  'a'  had  the  book- 
learnin'  I'd  oughta,  an'  not  been  the  ignorant  woman 
I  am,  I'd  'a'  been  able  to  speak  the  wise  word  to 
Miss  Katherine,  that  would  'a'  cooled  her  off,  an' 
ca'med  her  down,  till  she'd  have  her  reason  back,  an' 
could  see  the  right  an'  wrong  of  it  for  herself.  But 
I  haven't,  an'  she  ain't,  an'  while  I'm  sittin'  here 
thinkin'  about  it,  she's  makin'  tracks  for  Boston,  an' 
Dr.  Ballard.  Bein'  a  man,  he'll  welcome  her  with 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  275 

open  arms.  Bein'  a  girl,  she'll  forget  all  about  her 
good  intentions  to  throw'm  down,  the  minute  she 
claps  eyes  on'm.  An'  then,  when  it's  all  over,  an' 
Time  has  fanned  the  first  flush  off'n  'm,  he'll  get 
to  thinkin'  how  she  ain't  the  woman  he  thought  her, 
because  she  left  her  gran'ma  in  the  lurch,  which  he 
tol'  me  with  his  own  lips  he'd  never  ask  her  do  it. 
In  fac',  he  wouldn't  respec'  her  if  she  did  do  it,  an' 
the  poor  oP  lady  so  sick,  'n'  old,  'n'  lonesome.  An', 
with  one  like  Dr.  Ballard,  a  girl'd  want  to  think 
twice  before  she'd  risk  lowerin'  herself,  to  do  what 
he  couldn't  respec'.  No,  Dr.  Ballard  mustn't  know 
Miss  Katherine's  left  her  gran'ma  alone.  He  mustn't 
know  it,  even  if  she  does  it!  But  how  is  he  goin' 
not  to  know  it,  I  should  like  to  know?  " 

For  a  few  moments  Martha  painfully  pondered  the 
problem,  without  any  sign  of  untangling  its  knotted 
thread.  Then  suddenly  she  rose  and,  going  to  the 
foot  of  the  stairway,  called  up  to  Sam : 

"Say,  Sam — come  here  a  minute,  will  you?  I 
wisht  you'd  wake  up  Cora,  an'  tell  her  get  busy  fixin' 
the  breakfast.  An'  when  you  come  down,  set  Sammy 
feedin'  the  hens,  an'  turnin'  the  cow  out.  I  ain't  able 
to  do  my  chores,  because  I  got  suddently  called  away. 
I  prob'ly  won't  be  back  till  dinnertime,  or  maybe 
night.  Don't  wait  for  me,  an'  don't  be  uneasy.  I'll 
tell  you  about  it  later." 

She  caught  up  her  coat  and  hat,  hanging  on  a  hook 
on  the  entry  closet  door,  and  put  them  on  while 
she  was  making  her  way  across  the  grounds,  in  the 
direction  of  the  big  house. 


276  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

She  knew,  before  she  crossed  the  kitchen  doorsill, 
that  Mr.  Ronald  would  not  be  up  at  this  hour  of 
the  morning;  nevertheless,  she  got  Tyrrell  to  take 
a  message  for  her  to  his  door. 

"  Tell'm  I  got  somethin'  very  important  I  wanta 
say.  Ask'm  will  he  let  me  telefoam  it  up  to'm." 

Mr.  Frank  sent  down  word,  "  Certainly!  " 

"  I  got  a  favor  to  ask  of  you,  sir,"  Martha  told 
him  without  reserve. 

"  Let's  hear  it." 

"  Somethin'  's  happened  out  to  ol'  lady  Crewe's. 
Miss  Katherine,  she  come  to  me  just  now,  all  upset 
an'  wild-like.  Las'  night,  when  I  see  the  little 
Madam,  she  showed  as  plain  as  could  be,  she's  not 
long  for  this  world,  an'  by  now — what  with  the  shock 
she's  got — she's  prob'ly  goin'  fast.  Will  you  tele- 
foam  Dr.  Ballard,  an'  ask'm  to  come  to  her  right 
off?  He  told  me,  before  he  left,  if  any  of  you  folks, 
here,  or  her* 'd  reely  need'm,  I  was  to  let'm  know, 
an'  he'd  come,  if  it  took  a  leg." 

"  But,  Martha,"  objected  Mr.  Frank,  "  that's  the 
point.  If  we  really  need  him.  Are  you  sure  the  case 
is  so  urgent?  Recollect,  Dr.  Ballard  is  a  busy  man. 
His  time  is  worth  more  than  money.  Much  more. 
There  isn't  one  chance  in  a  thousand,  that  he  could 
leave  to  come  here,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  even 
if  I  asked  him." 

"  He'd  come,"  said  Martha  confidently. 

"  And  I  don't  want  to  ask  him — I'd  have  no  right 
to  do  it,  unless  the  need  is  extreme.  Is  the  need  ex 
treme?  Are  you  sure  of  it?  " 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  277 

Martha  hesitated  but  a  moment.  "  Yes,  sir.  I'm 
sure,"  she  answered. 

"  Then  I  understand  you  to  say  that  I  am  to  call 
up  Dr.  Ballard.  I  am  to  tell  him  that  Madam  Crewe 
is  in  a  critical  condition.  I  am  to  ask  him  to  come 
on  at  once.  It  is  a  matter  of  life  or  death.  That 
is  the  message,  Martha?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  You're  positive?    Life  or  death?  " 

"  Life — an'  death,"  repeated  Martha  distinctly. 

"  Then  call  up  Central,  and  ask  for  Long  Dis 
tance.  When  you  get  it,  give  me  the  wire.  Shall 
you  wait  for  the  answer?  " 

"  No,  sir.  I'm  goin'  straight  to  the  little  oP  lady's 
now.  She  needs  me,  an' — I  know  the  doctor'll 


come." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

/TVHE  "  little  oP  lady's  "  need  of  her  was  as  dis- 
•*•      tinct  in  Martha's  consciousness,  as  if  it  had 
come  to  her  in  the  form  of  a  verbal  message,  through 
ordinary  physical  channels. 

Its  insistent  reiteration,  since  the  night  before,  had 
drowned  out  the  impression  of  Mrs.  Peckett's  mis 
chievous  tongue,  even  Katherine's  poignant  re 
proaches.  Everything  else  fell  into  the  background 
before  that  one  soundless  cry  of  appeal. 

For  once  in  her  life  Martha  hurried. 

Eunice  Youngs  met  her  at  the  kitchen-porch,  show 
ing  a  scared  face. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Slawson,"  she  drawled,  with  some 
thing  in  her  voice  and  manner  almost  resembling 
animation,  "  oh,  Mrs.  Slawson,  if  ever  I  was  glad  to 
see  anybody !  " 

"What's  the  trouble?" 

"  I  d'know.  When  I  went  up  to  Miss  Katherine's 
room  about  an  hour  ago,  with  Madam's  coffee,  I 
knocked  an'  knocked,  an'  no  one  answered.  Then, 
I  went  to  Madam's  door,  an'  knocked  an'  knocked, 
an'  no  one  answered.  But  the  sitting-room  door 
was  open,  so  I  peeked  in,  an'- 

"  Well?  "  Martha's  impatience  spurred  her  on. 

"  Madam  was  sitting  up  in  her  chair,  just  like 
always,  only  she — looked  like  she  was  dead." 

278 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  279 

Before  the  words  were  fairly  out,  Martha  had 
brushed  Eunice  aside,  and  was  halfway  up  the  back 
stairs.  In  the  moment  it  took  her  to  cover  the  dis 
tance  between  them  and  the  sitting-room,  her 
thoughts  ran  riot,  but  one  sentence  kept  repeating 
itself  unconsciously: 

"  Poor  Miss  Katherine!    Poor  Miss  Katherine!  " 

Automatically  she  tapped  on  the  sitting-room 
door,  pushed  it  open,  and  entered. 

Madam  Crewe  was  sitting  in  her  chair,  as  Eunice 
had  described  her,  but  as  Martha  came  forward,  the 
drooping  head  lifted  ever  so  slightly,  the  heavy  eyes 
gave  out  a  faint  spark. 

Without  a  word  Martha  poured  into  a  glass  one 
of  Dr.  Ballard's  stimulants,  in  the  use  of  which  she 
had  been  well  instructed.  She  held  the  glass  to 
Madam  Crewe's  lips,  supporting  her  while  she 
drank,  then  waiting  until  the  lips  showed  a  tinge  of 
color. 

"Good — morning!  Why  don't — you — ask — me, 
how  I — slept?" 

Martha  caught  the  labored  words  with  difficulty. 
She  caught,  what  was  even  more  difficult,  the  inten 
tion  to  preserve  the  old  tone  of  caustic  raillery. 

"  I  never  do,"  she  answered  imperturbably,  play 
ing  up  with  gallant  spirit,  to  the  required  pace.  "  I 
never  do.  Mornin's,  when  folks  ask  you  how  you 
slep',  mostly  it's  just  for  the  chance  to  let  you  know 
how  they  didn't." 

"Kath— er— ine?" 

"  I  see  her  before  I  come  in  here.     She's  kinda 


280  MAKING  OVER -MARTHA 

played  out,  this  mornin'.  I  guess  we  better  let  her 
rest  a  while,  hadn't  we?  " 

Madam  Crewe's  eyes  conveyed  assent. 

Chatting  lightly  on,  ignoring  any  reason  for  not 
doing  so,  Martha  undressed  the  rigid  little  body,  and 
laid  it  tenderly  in  bed.  Somehow,  she  managed  to 
prepare  a  breakfast  which  the  Madam,  patiently 
suffered  herself  to  be  fed,  though  Martha  knew  it 
was  a  hardship. 

"  It'd  astonish  you,  how  she's  fightin',"  Mrs. 
Slawson  told  Miss  Claire,  whom  Mr.  Ronald  brought 
out  in  the  course  of  the  early  forenoon  to  make  in 
quiries.  "  It'd  astonish  you.  She  won't  give  in.  She 
falls  asleep,  in  spite  of  herself,  but  after  a  minute, 
there  she  is  awake  again,  for  all  the  world  as  if  the 
spirit  in  her  wouldn't  let  itself  be  downed.  I  never 
see  anybody  livin'  as  fierce  as  her.  She's  doin'  it, 
for  all  she's  worth.  Every  minute,  full  up,  be- 
grutchin'  the  time  she  has  to  lose  for  rest." 

"You  were  right  about  Dr.  Ballard,  Martha," 
Francis  Ronald  admitted.  "  He  is  coming.  I  am 
going  to  Burbank  to  meet  him  and  bring  him  back 
with  me,  directly  I  have  taken  my  wife  home." 

Martha  nodded.  "  I  knew  he'd  do  it.  He's  the 
kind  you  couldn't  slip  up  on.  Same's  yourself, 
sir." 

When  Martha  returned  to  her  patient,  Madam 
Crewe  had  to  be  told  where  she  had  been,  had  to 
be  shown  the  flowers  Mrs.  Ronald  had  brought,  in 
formed  of  the  messages  she  had  left. 

Then— "  Where's  Katherine?" 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  281 

The  question  kept  repeating  itself,  as  if  in  spite 
of  her. 

"  Comin'  presently,"  Martha  shied  the  point  dex 
terously. 

"  I  tried — last  night  .  .  .  *  square  deal ' 

Failed." 

"  Oh,  no !  you  didn't  fail.  You  mustn't  be  in  too 
much  of  a  hurry.  Miss  Katherine'll  see  what  you 
meant,  give  her  a  chance  to  get  the  right  squint  at  it. 
You  got  to  be  pationate  with  childern.  Time  goes 
slow  for  them.  Miss  Katherine's  a  good  child!  " 

Madam  Crewe  raised  her  eyes,  and  fixed  them  full 
on  Martha.  "  Slawson — you're  a  good  woman." 

It  seemed  to  Katherine  Crewe,  trudging  along  the 
dreary  stretch  of  road  on  her  way  to  the  station, 
that  there  was  no  use  struggling  any  longer  in  a 
world  where  the  combined  forces  were  so  obviously, 
so  uncompromisingly  against  her.  Her  one  hope 
had  been  Mrs.  Slawson.  Mrs.  Slawson  had  failed 
her. 

As  she  foresaw  it,  there  was  nothing  in  her  meet 
ing  with  Dr.  Ballard  to  promise  better  things.  She 
had  told  him,  once  and  for  all,  she  would  never 
marry  him.  He  had  taken  her  at  her  word,  and  gone 
away.  What  she  had  to  tell  him  now,  would  only 
constitute  another  reason  for  her  to  hold  to  her  de 
cision — another  ground  for  him  to  accept  it  with  easy 
resignation. 

Filed  past,  in  slow  procession  through  her  brain, 
all  the  haunting  years,  through  which  she  had  tried, 


282  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

and  tried,  and  had  had  nothing  but  disappointment, 
frustration,  for  her  pains. 

Dr.  Ballard  had  assured  her  one  could  over 
master  conditions. 

Not  when  the  blood  of  weaklings  ran  in  one's 
veins. 

Everything  he  or  Mrs.  Slawson  had  told  her,  that 
had  seemed  convincing  at  the  time,  was  negatived 
now,  by  her  knowledge  of  what  she  was.  Now  she 
knew  why  she  had  never  been  able  to  compel  life  to 
give  her  what  she  demanded.  It  was  because  she 
was  one  of  the  "  unfit,"  predestined,  by  two  gen 
erations  of  degenerates,  not  to  survive.  She  could 
see  nothing  but  animus,  as  her  grandmother's  motive 
for  telling  her.  The  accumulated,  smoldering  resent 
ment  of  years,  gathering  force  through  this  crowning 
act  of  injustice,  flamed  up  fiercely  until  it  blinded 
her. 

When,  at  last,  she  reached  the  station,  it  was  only 
to  find  she  had  missed  the  car  she  should  have  taken. 
She  must  wait  an  hour  for  another. 

She  almost  smiled.  The  little  incident  was  so  of 
a  piece  with  the  rest  of  her  experience. 

As  she  composed  herself  to  sit  out  the  hour,  in 
the  chill  desolateness  of  the  deserted  waiting-room, 
her  thoughts  still  harried  her,  but  now  she  felt  them 
less  keenly.  It  was  as  if  her  wits  were  wrapped  in 
cotton. 

At  a  touch  on  her  shoulder,  she  started  up,  trem 
bling,  dazed.  She  had  not  seen  the  station-master, 
until  he  actually  stood  before  her. 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  283 

"  Did  you  want  to  take  the  next  trolley  to  Bur- 
bank?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  wondering  why  her  eyes 
were  so  heavy,  her  head  so  dull. 

"  Well,  it'll  be  along  in  five  minutes,  now.  I 
thought  you  wanted  to  take  the  last  one,  but  you 
didn't  stir,  and  come  to  find  out,  you  were  asleep. 
I  hated  to  rouse  you  now,  only  I  thought,  maybe, 
I'd  ought  to." 

She  had  slept  two  hours. 

Speeding  through  the  country,  her  head  became 
clearer.  Not  for  that  were  her  thoughts  less  har 
assing.  Another  element  had  entered  in,  to  make 
them  more  so, — indecision.  Little  by  little,  bit  by 
bit,  came  back  certain  stray  fragments  of  sentences 
she  dimly  recollected  having  heard  Mrs.  Slawson 
pronounce.  Sentences  that,  at  the  time,  in  her  be 
numbed  state,  had  left  her  cold,  making  no  conscious 
impression.  She  remembered  Martha's  face,  when 
first  she  saw  her  at  the  porch  door.  What  had  she 
been  afraid  of?  Martha  Slawson,  who  was  never 
afraid  of  anything?  The  answer  that  had  sprung 
to  her  own  lips,  was  given  without  deliberation.  It 
had  just  naturally  come  in  response  to  Mrs.  Slaw- 
son's  look  of  dread.  She  had  replied  that  her  grand 
mother  was  "  all  right."  How  had  she  known  her 
grandmother  was  all  right?  She  had  not  stopped 
to  inform  herself,  before  she  left  the  house.  She 
had  gone  without  a  word,  without  a  look. 

The  last  time  she  and  her  grandmother  had  come 
to  grief,  trying  to  "  understand  each  other,"  the  old 


284  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

woman  had  borne  a  brave  front  until  the  ordeal  was 
over,  then  had  quietly  fainted  away.  What  if  she 
had  done  the  same  thing  now? — when  no  one  was 
there  to  come  to  the  rescue. 

"  By  your  own  say-so  you  ain't  any  of  those 
things. — You  got  a  mind  o'  your  own  an'  a  conscience 
o'  your  own.  .  .  .  You're  strong  as  they  make'm. 
.  .  .  This  hangin'  on  your  antsisters,  for  good  or 
for  bad,  makes  me  sick.  .  .  .  Don't  you  fool  your 
self:  It's  every  man  for  himself,  these  days,  thank 
God!  .  .  .  Somethin'  beautiful  in  all  your  blows, 
if  you  only  had  sense  to  see.  The  hardest  knock  you 
ever  got,  you'd  see  stars.  ..." 

Once,  when  she  was  a  child,  Katherine  had  been 
given  a  toy  which,  more  than  all  of  her  others,  had 
filled  her  with  delight  and  wonderment. 

It  was  a  large,  circular  box,  set  on  a  pedestal,  re 
volving  on  a  pin.  Perpendicular  slits  were  cut,  at 
regular  intervals,  all  around  its  lower  wall,  and 
within  were  coiled  long,  colored  picture-scrolls, 
facing  outward.  When  the  box,  or  drum,  revolved, 
the  scene  depicted  suddenly  sprang  into  motion. 

She  could  not  have  followed,  had  she  tried,  the 
subtle,  involuted  train  of  association  that  led  her  back 
to  her  experience  with  the  long  disremembered  play 
thing.  But,  even  as  she  thought  of  it,  she  saw  her 
self,  as  she  had  so  often  sat,  a  disappointed,  be 
wildered  child,  staring  at  the  stupid,  tiresome  lengths 
of  crude,  static  prints,  which  her  inexperienced  hand 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  285 

had  not  learned  to  adjust,  so  they  would  become  sig 
nificant,  entertaining. 

Like  a  sudden  flash  of  light,  came  the  suggestion 
that,  up  to  this,  she  had  sat  just  so,  regarding  life. 
Seeing  it  in  the  flat,  finding  it  dull,  stale,  unprofitable. 
What  if  it  were  possible  to  learn  the  trick  of  adjust 
ment  !  What  if  it  were  possible  to  discover  the  dy 
namic  pivot,  by  which  the  great  revolution  would 
take  place,  the  revolution  that  would  make  life  inter 
esting,  give  it  meaning?  Had  any  one  ever  found 
either? 

Instantly,  she  thought  of  two  persons — the  two 
who,  more  than  any  others  she  had  ever  known,  had 
got  the  most  good  pleasure  out  of  life.  Daniel  Bal- 
lard — Martha  Slawson.  Two  very  different  person 
alities,  in  widely  different  situations,  yet  with  the 
same  invincible  courage,  the  same  curious  capacity  for 
inspiring  others  with  their  own  faith  in  all  that  is 
best.  These  two  had  the  same  wide  vision,  the  same 
high  purpose.  They  both  had  looked  on  life,  and 
found  it  good. 

Long  before  her  car  reached  Burbank,  Katherine 
had  determined  to  go  home. 

She  heard,  with  composure,  the  Junction  "  start 
er's  "  announcement,  that  her  car  had  gone  out  three 
minutes  before.  She  must  wait  an  hour,  if  she  wanted 
to  take  the  next.  In  her  present  mood,  she  was  glad 
of  the  opportunity  to  try  her  new-found  strength. 
Out  of  her  depths  of  depression  she  had  leaped  in 
one  miraculous  moment,  to  a  height  of  exaltation 
such  as  she  had  never  known  before.  She  was  ready 


286  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

to  fight  the  world,  in  order  to  prove  she  could  come 
out  conqueror. 

"  No,  ma'am,  there  ain't  any  other  way  of  getting 
back,  excepting  the  trolley,  unless  you  take  an  auto 
mobile.  But  I  tell  you  what!  The  Boston  train'll 
be  along  presently.  There'll  be  rigs  here  then,  and 
motors  come  to  meet  it,  and  probably  some  of  them'll 
be  going  back  your  way.  They'd  give  you  a  lift,  I 
dare  say,  if  you're  in  a  great  hurry  and  asked 
them." 

Katherine  considered.  To  sit  in  the  station,  tamely 
waiting  for  things  to  come  her  way,  was  out  of  all 
line  with  her  present  impulse.  She  could  not  endure 
inaction.  She  had  a  flagellant's  ecstatic  eagerness 
to  begin  her  own  castigation.  She  would  walk. 

The  starter  did  not  confide  to  her  his  private 
opinion  of  her  plan,  when  she  indicated  what  she  pro 
posed  to  do  by  asking  directions  as  to  the  way. 

'  There's  a  goodish  stretch  out  of  here,  where  the 
walking's  easy.  But  you'd  have  to  get  beyond  that, 
before  you'd  be  likely  to  be  come  up  with,  by  a  rig, 
or  a  car,  going  your  way.  You  see,  the  trolley-line 
and  the  motors  both  use  the  road.  Foot  passengers 
ain't  allowed  to,  where  there's  so  much  traveling. 
It'd  be  dangerous.  But  once  you  get  off  the  main 
beat,  going  in  the  direction  of  your  town,  all  you  have 
to  do  is  stick  to  the  road  and  you'll  get  there!  " 

Looking  after  her,  as  she  started  off  gallantly 
enough,  his  skepticism  found  vent  in  a  long,  low 
whistle  and  a  muttered — "  You'll  get  there — if  you 
have  luck." 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  287 

But  Katharine  felt  no  doubt  of  herself.  It  was 
only  after  she  had  covered  "  the  goodish  stretch," 
and  come  out  on  the  road  where  the  walking  was 
"  heavy,"  that  her  elation  dropped  a  trifle,  her  bag 
began  to  prove  itself  subject  to  the  law  of  gravita 
tion.  Still  she  plodded  on  resolutely. 

She  had  no  hope  that  she  would  be  able  to  out 
strip  the  trolley,  but  at  least  she  was  not  meekly 
submitting  to  overmastering  forces,  as  she  had  done 
in  the  past.  And  if  nothing  better  offered,  she 
would  take  the  trolley,  when  it  should  come  along, 
and  so  accomplish  her  purpose  in  the  end. 

She  did  not  know  how  far  she  had  walked,  when 
her  ears  caught  the  sound  of  an  approaching  auto 
mobile. 

The  way,  at  that  point,  was  narrow,  and  for  a  mo 
ment  she  hesitated.  Would  it  be  better  to  step  up 
on  the  bank,  or  proceed,  as  she  was  doing,  trusting 
to  the  chauffeur  to  guide  and  control  his  car  so  as 
not  to  run  her  down?  She  chose  the  first  course,  glad 
that  she  had  done  so,  when,  looking  back  the  way 
she  had  come,  she  saw  what  an  immense  machine  it 
was  bearing  down  upon  her.  Then  all  at  once,  her 
heart  gave  a  leap. 

It  was  the  Ronalds'  car. 

A  minute,  and  the  chauffeur  had  seen,  recognized 
her.  The  car  came  to  a  halt. 

The  next  thing  she  knew,  Francis  Ronald  had 
sprung  from  the  limousine,  taken  her  bag,  given  it 
to  his  driver,  handed  her  into  the  car,  and,  himself, 
taken  his  place  beside  his  man.  It  was  only  then, 


288  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

that  she  realized  he  had  closed  the  door  upon  her, 
and  a  companion.  A  man.  She  looked  up.  The 
car  started  into  motion.  She  was  in  Daniel  Ballard's 
arms,  being  held  very  close. 

She  tried  to  wrench  herself  away. 

"  No,  no !  "  she  panted.  "  You  don't  understand! 
You  don't  know !  " 

Recapturing  the  hand  she  had  freed,  he  pressed 
it  to  his  lips,  smiling  at  her  reassuringly. 

"  I  know  everything.  It's  all  right.  What  do  you 
think  I  care  ?  " 

"  But  you  don't  know,"  she  insisted.  "  I  was  com 
ing  to  tell  you.  I  was  on  my  way.  And  then  I  re 
membered  how  old  she  is,  and  weak  and  forlorn  and 
— I  am  going  back  to  her — to  comfort  her.  But  I 
had  been  on  my  way  to  you — to  tell  you — tell  you 
what  I  am — what  I've  done.  I'm ' 

"  Hush!  "  commanded  Dr.  Ballard  gently.  "  Be 
still,  and  you'll  find  it's  all  right.  She  made  it  right, 
before  I  left  to  go  to  Boston.  She  told  me  every 
thing.  What  you  had  told  her,  what,  I  suppose,  she 
has  told  you.  Everything.  She  asked  me  to  wait 
until  you  had  found  yourself.  She  said,  you  were 
an  idealist — '  Up  in  the  clouds,'  she  put  it.  She 
feared  you  would  draw  a  storm  down  on  yourself 
and  me,  if  you  were  trusted  with  your  own  life,  at 
this  juncture.  She  begged  me  not  to  press  on  you 
any  more  problems  than  you  already  had.  She 
wanted  you  to  profit  by  her  mistakes,  to  have  what 
she  had  missed — and  to  have  it  untarnished  by  re 
grets.  It  was  for  that  she  tested  you.  It  was  for 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  289 

that  she  denied  herself  necessaries,  that,  in  the  end, 
you  might  have  plenty.  She  said,  she  must  make  sure 
you  did  not  set  money  above  love,  as  she,  as — others 
had  done  before  you.  Talk  about  idealists !  She 
managed  it  all  very  clumsily,  but,  at  least,  she  tried 
to  do  right  by  you,  according  to  her  lights.  I  told 
her,  'twas  wrong  to  tamper  with  human  hearts.  I 
told  her,  she  had  no  right  to  try  to  direct  human 
destinies.  But  I'd  better  have  held  my  tongue.  The 
mischief  was  already  done.  She  had  tampered.  She 
had  tried.  .  .  .  She  was  always  hoping  you  would 
come  to  see  she  had  acted  in  good  faith.  You  see 
it  now,  don't  you,  sweetheart?  You'll  show  her  you 
do,  when  we  get  home,  won't  you — if  it's  not  too 
late?" 

"Too  late?" 

The  syllables  rang  out  with  cruel  sharpness. 

"  You  don't  know,  then,  that  she  is — dying?" 

Katherine  gave  him  a  terrified  look. 

"  Oh,  let  us  go  fast — fast!  Dan — darling — don't 
let  it  be  too  late !  " 

It  was  nearing  sunset  when  the  car  drove  into 
Crewesmere. 

Martha  heard  it,  but  the  sound  carried  no  comfort 
to  her  heart.  At  best,  it  could  only  mean  that  Dr. 
Ballard  had  arrived  and — Dr.  Ballard  was  not  Kath 
erine  !  Katherine  for  whom  her  grandmother  had 
been  vainly  calling  all  through  the  day. 

"  She'll  be  here  presently,"  Martha  had  answered. 
"  She's  gone  out."  "  She'll  come  in  pretty  soon, 
now."  "  I  expect  her  any  minute." 


290  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

Once,  the  little  old  woman  had  made  a  mighty 
effort,  gathered  her  forces  together,  and  brought  out 
the  question, 

"  Has  she  left  me?    Gone  to  Boston?  " 

Martha  could  not  have  escaped  her  searching  eyes, 
if  she  had  tried.  She  met  them  squarely,  and  told 
her  untruth  as  convincingly  as  if  it  had  been  the 
truth.  In  the  depths  of  her  soul,  she  "  had  the  faith 
to  believe  "  it  was  the  truth.  "  Only,  I'm  bound  to 
confess,  it  don't  look  like  it." 

"Leave  you?  Gone  to  Boston?  Not  on  your  life. 
Miss  Katherine's  a  good  child.  Even  if  she'd  got 
kinda  bewizzled-like,  an'  started  off,  meanin'  to  go, 
she  wouldn't  'a'  went.  She'd  turn  back,  an'  come 
home.  You  can  take  it  from  me!  I  know  Miss 
Katherine." 

But  the  hands  of  the  clock  had  slipped  around, 
and  Katherine  had  not  come  home. 

Dr.  Driggs  dropped  in,  like  the  rest  of  the  neigh 
bors,  to  "  inquire."  He  did  not  venture  inside  the 
sick-room,  but  when  Martha  described  the  situation, 
Madam  Crewe's  hungry  longing  to  keep  up  until  she 
could  see  her  grandchild,  he  left  something  to  be 
administered  that,  he  thought,  "  might  help  along, 
some,  maybe." 

It  did. 

After  she  had  taken  it,  the  wonderful  little  soul 
revived  amazingly.  She  beckoned  Martha  to  her 
with  a  look,  whispering  out  the  difficult  syllables,  as 
if  on  her  last  breath— 

"  If  Katherine  shouldn't  come " 


MAKING  OVER  MARTHA  291 

"  She  will  come,  never  fear,"  Martha  reassured 
her. 

"  I've  left  you — a  little  keepsake.  A  thousand 
dollars.  .  .  .  It's  down  .  .  .  black-and-white  .  .  . 
in  letter  to  Katherine.  Promise  .  .  .  take  some, 
and  go  ...  with  your  Sam  ...  to  New  York 
.  .  .  alone  .  .  .  honeymoon." 

"  Certaintly,"  said  Martha,  humoring  her  sooth 
ingly,  without  the  slightest  suspicion  she  was  lis 
tening  to  anything  but  the  babbling  of  aged  weak 
ness. 

"  Certaintly,  ma'am.  An'  thank  you  kindly  for 
the  thought.  Sam  an'  me'll  have  the  time  of  our 
lives." 

"  See   .    .    .   you  do !  "  ordered  the  little  Madam. 

The  western  sky  was  a  blaze  of  glory  when  she 
spoke  again. 

"  I'll  meet  you  .  .  .  dearest  Daniel  .  .  . 
when  the  sun  goes  down !  " 

"What,  ma'am?"  inquired  Martha,  instantly  on 
the  alert. 

The  lowered  lids  lifted.  The  lapsing  mind  leaped 
back  to  consciousness. 

"Katherine!" 

"  She'll  be  here  right  off.    She's  on  her  way!  " 

An  automobile  drove  up  before  the  house. 

"  Dr.  Ballard's  come  all  the  way  from  Boston  to 
see  you,  ma'am,"  Martha  said. 

A  moment,  and  the  door  opened.  A  girlish  figure 
flew  across  the  room. 

"  Grandmother!     Dear,  dear  grandmother  1  " 


292  MAKING  OVER  MARTHA 

Katherine  knelt  by  the  bedside,  gathering  up  the 
little  body  in  her  loving  arms. 

Dr.  Ballard  bent  to  lift  the  tiny  wrist. 

There  was  a  gentle  sigh,  a  flicker  of  the  eyelids. 
Madam  Crewe  looked  up  contentedly,  over  Kath- 
erine's  bowed  head,  and  her  eyes  fixed  themselves 
full  on  Martha. 

The  look  said,  "  Slawson,  you're  a  good  woman  1  " 


THE   END 


CONINGSBY      <D  A  W  S  O  N 


The  Garden  Without  Walls 

The  story  of  the  adventures  in  love  of  the  hero  till  his 
thirtieth  year  is  as  fascinating  as  are  the  three  heroines. 
His  Puritan  stock  is  in  constant  conflict  with  his  Pagan 
imagination.  Ninth  printing.  $1.35  net. 

"Never  did  hero  find  himself  the  adored  of  three  more  enchanting 
heroines.  A  book  which  will  deserve  the  popularity  it  is  certain  to 
achieve." — The  Independent. 

"Mr.  Dawson  has  dared  splendidly  to  write,  in  a  glorious  abandon, 
a  story  all  interwoven  with  a  glow  of  romance  almost  medieval  in  its 
pagan  color,  yet  wholly  modern  in  its  import." — Samuel  Abbott,  in 
The  Boston  Herald. 

"All  vivid  with  the  color  of  life;  a  novel  to  compel  not  only  absorbed 
attention,  but  long  remembrance." — The  Boston  Transcript. 

"The  most  enjoyable  first  novel  since  De  Morgan's  'Joseph  Vance.'  " 

— /.  B.  Kerfoot,  in  Life. 

The  Raft 

A  story  of  high  gallantry,  which  teaches  that  even  mod 
ern  life  is  an  affair  of  courageous  chivalry.  The  story  is 
crowded  with  over  thirty  significant  characters,  some 
whimsical,  some  tender,  some  fanciful;  all  are  poignantly 
real  with  their  contrasting  ideals  and  purposes. 

"The  Raft"  is  a  panorama  of  everyday,  available 
romance.  Just  ready.  $1.35  net. 

Florence  on  a  Certain  Night  (and  Other  Poems) 

12mo.    $1.25  net. 

"The   work   of  a  true  lyric  poet  who   'utters   his   own  soul.'  " 

— Literary   Digest. 

"The  preeminent  quality  in  all  Mr.  Dawson's  verse  is  the  union  of 
delicacy  and  strength.  A  generation  which  has  all  but  forgotten  the 
meaning  of  the  phrase  'to  keep  himself  unspotted  from  the  world"  has 
great  need  of  this  sort  of  poetry." — Providence  Journal. 


HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


BY   INEZ   HAYNES   GILLMORE 

ANGEL  ISLAND 

With  2  illustrations  by  JOHN  RAE.     $1.35  net. 

This  strange,  picturesque  romance,  with  its  deep  underlying 
significance,  won  praise  from  such  high  authorities  as  The 
Bookman,  The  Evening  Post,  The  Times  Review,  The  Chi 
cago  Record-Herald,  and  The  Boston  Transcript,  the  last  of 
which  says:  "  Fine  types  of  men  .  .  .  the  five  women  are 
magnificent  creatures.  .  .  .  Always  the  story  carries  it 
self,  but  always  it  is  pregnant  with  the  larger  suggestion, 
which  gives  it  its  place  in  feminist  literature." 

PHOEBE  AND  ERNEST 

With  30  illustrations  by  R.  F.  SCHABELITZ.    $1.35  net. 

Parents  will  recognize  themselves  in  the  story,  and  laugh 
understandingly  with,  and  sometimes  at,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Martin 
and  their  children,  Phoebe  and  Ernest. 

"We  must  go  back  to  Louisa  Olcott  for  their  equals.  "—Boston  Adver 
tiser. 

"For  young  and  old  alike  we  know  of  no  more  refreshing  story.'' — 
New  York  Evening  Post. 

PHOEBE,   ERNEST,   AND  CUPID 

Illustrated  by  R.  F.  SCHABELITZ.    $1.35  net. 
In  this  sequel  to  the  popular  "  Phoebe  and  Ernest,"  each 
of  these  delightful  young  folk  goes  to  the  altar. 

"To  all  jaded  readers  of  problem  novels,  to  all  weary  wayfarers  on 
the  rocky  literary  road  of  social  pessimism  and  domestic  woe,  we  rec 
ommend  '  Phoebe,  Ernest,  and  Cupid '  with  all  our  hearts :  it  is  not  only 
cheerful,  it's  true."— N.  Y.  Times  Review. 

"Wholesome,  merry,  absolutely  true  to  life."—  The  Outlook. 

JANEY 

Illustrated  by  ADA  C.  WILLIAMSON.    $1.25  net. 
"  Being  the  record  .of  a  short  interval  in  the  journey  thru 
life  and  the  struggle  with  society  of  a  little  girl  of  nine." 

"Depicts  youthful  human  nature  as  one  who  knows  and  loves  it.  Her 
'Phoebe  and  Ernest'  studies  are  deservedly  popular,  and  now,  in 
'  Janey,'  this  clever  writer  has  accomplished  an  equally  charming  por 
trait."—  Chicago  Record- Her  aid. 

HENRY     HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  iv  '14  NEW  YORK 


WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN'S  NOVELS 

"WHY  ALL  THIS  POPULARITY?"  asks  E.  V.  LUCAS,  writ 
ing  in  the  Outlook  of  De  Morgan's  Novels.  He  answers : 
De  Morgan  is  "  almost  the  perfect  example  of  the  humorist ; 
certainly  the  completest  since  Lamb.  .  .  .  Humor,  how 
ever,  is  not  all.  .  .  .  In  the  De  Morgan  world  it  is  hard  to  find 
an  unattractive  figure.  .  .  .  The  charm  of  the  young  women, 
all  brave  and  humorous  and  gay,  and  all  trailing  clouds 
of  glory  from  the  fairyland  from  which  they  have  just  come." 

JOSEPH  VANCE 

The  story  of  a  great  sacrifice  and  a  life-long  love. 

"The  book  of  the  last  decade;  the  best  thing  in  fiction  since  Mr. 
Meredith  and  Mr.  Hardy  ;  must  take  its  place  as  the  first  great  English 
novel  that  has  appeared  in  the  twentieth  century."— LEWIS  MELVILLE 
in  New  York  Times  Saturday  Review. 

ALICE -FOR -SHORT 

The  romance  of  an  unsuccessful  man,  in  which  the  long 
buried  past  reappears  in  London  of  to-day. 

"If  any  writer  of  the  present  era  is  read  a  half  century  hence,  a 
quarter  century,  or  even  a  decade,  that  writer  is  William  De  Morgan." 
— Boston  Transcript. 

SOMEHOW  GOOD 

How  two  brave  women  won  their  way  to  happiness. 
"A  book  as  sound,  as  sweet,  as  wholesome,  as  wise,  as  any  in  the 
range  of  fiction."—  The  Nation. 

IT  NEVER  CAN  HAPPEN  AGAIN 

A  story  of  the  great  love  of  Blind  Jim  and  his  little  daugh- 
tei;  and  of  the  affairs  of  a  successful  novelist. 

"De  Morgan  at  his  very  best,  and  how  much  better  his  best  is  than 
the  work  ofany  novelist  of  the  past  thirty  years."—  The  Independent, 

AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

A  very  dramatic  novel   of   Restoration   days. 
"A  marvelous  example  of  Mr.  De  Morgan's  inexhaustible  fecnndity 
of  invention.    .    .    .    Shines  as  a  romance  quite  as  much  as  'Joseph 
Vanct '  does  among  realistic  novels."— Chicago  Record-Herald. 

A  LIKELY  STORY 

"  Begins  comfortably  enough  with  a  little  domestic  quarrel  in  a 
studio.  .  .  .  The  story  shifts  suddenly,  however,  to  a  brilliantly 
told  tragedy  of  the  Italian  Renaissance  embodied  in  a  girl's  portrait. 
.  .  .  The  many  readers  who  like  Mr.  De  Morgan  will  enjoy  this  charm 
ing  fancy  greatly."— New  York  Sun. 

A  Likely  Story,  $1.33  net ;  the  others,  $1.73  each. 
WHEN  GHOST  MEETS  GHOST 

The  most  "  De  Morganish  "  of  all  his  stones.  The  scene 
is  England  in  the  fifties.  862 pages.  $1.60  net. 

***  A  thirty-two  page   illustrated   leaflet  about  Mr.  De  Morgan,  with 
complete  reviews  of  his  first  four  books,  sent  on  request. 

HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


BOOKS  BY  BEULAH  MARIE  DIX 

MOTHER'S  SON.    A  Novel 

The  story  of  the  redemption  of  a  spendthrift  German 
"toy  soldier,"  exiled  to  America.  The  heroine  is  the 
author's  'Betty-Bide-at-Home"  grown  up  and  become  a 
successful  playwright.  There  is  considerable  humor.  The 
scenes  are  mostly  Boston  and  vicinity  and  New  York. 
Just  published.  ($1.35  net.) 

Boston  Transcript:  "Straightforward  and  swiftly  the  story  moves  from 
its  happy  beginning  to  its  happy  ending  .  .  .  The  heroine,  that  delight 
ful  "Betty-Bide-at-Home"  .  .  .  that  delicious  femininity  that  makes  her 
so  appealing  ...  a  charming  romance  .  .  .  Through  the  story_  of 
his  redemption  shines  the  glory  of  youth,  its  courage,  its  high  optimism 
its  unconquerable  faith  in  itself  .  .  .  fine  as  is  the  novel  technically, 
it  is  even  finer  in  its  silent  insistence  upon  an  ideal  of  love  and  of 
marriage." 

THE   FIGHTING  BLADE.     A   Romance 

The  hero,  a  quiet,  boyish  German  soldier  serving  Crom 
well,  loves  a  little  tomboy  Royalist  heiress.  3rd  printing. 
($1.30  net.) 

New  York  Tribune:  "Lovers  of  this  kind  of  fiction  will  find  here  all 
they  can  desire,  and  it  is  all  of  excellent  quality." 

New  York  Times:  "The  freshness  of  youth  and  of  life  and  of  the 
joy  of  living." 

Chicago  Inter-Ocean:  "The  best  historical  romance  the  man  who  writes 
these  lines  has  read  in  half  a  dozen  years." 

ALLISON'S  LAD,  and  Other  Martial  Interludes 
Including  "The  Hundredth  Trick,"  "The  Weakest  Link," 
"The  Snare  and  the  Fowler,"  "The  Captain  of  the  Gate," 
"The  Dark  of  the  Dawn."  One-act  war  plays;  all  the 
characters  are  men,  and  amateurs  have  acted  them 
successfully. 

Boston  Transcript:  "Her  technical  mastery  is  great,  but  her  spiritual 
mastery  is  greater.  For  this  book  lives  in  memory  .  .  .  Noble  passion 
holding  the  balance  between  life  and  death  is  the  motif  sharply  outlined 
and  vigorously  portrayed.  In  each  interlude  the  author  has  seized  upon 
a  vital  situation  and  has  massed  all  her  forces." 

FOR  YOUNG  FOLKS 

FRIENDS  IN  THE  END 

A  tale  of  conflict  between  young  folks  one  summer  in 
New  Hampshire.  Illustrated.  ($1.25  net.) 

Living  Age:  "Far  above  the  average  juvenile  ...  A  vivid  narrative, 
interesting  with  the  intensity  of  a  country  land  rights  feud  .  .  .  The 
people  are  clearly  drawn  ...  a  true  atmosphere." 

BETTY-BIDE-AT-HOME 

Betty  gave  up  college  to  help  her  family,  but  learned 
several  things,  including  authorship,  at  home.  3rd  printing. 
($1.25  net.) 

Churchman:  "Among  the  season's  books  for  girls  it  easily  takes  first 
place." 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  (ix'13)  NEW  YORK 


JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

By  ROMAIN  ROLLAND 

Translated  from  the  French  by  GILBERT  CANNAN.  In 
three  volumes,  each  $1.50  nek 

This  great  trilogy,  the  life  story  of  a  musician,  at  first 
the  sensation  of  musical  circles  in  Paris,  has  come  to  be  one 
of  the  most  discussed  books  among  literary  circles  in  France, 
England  and  America. 

Each  volume  of  the  American  edition  has  its  own  indi 
vidual  interest,  can  be  understood  without  the  other,  and 
comes  to  a  definite  conclusion. 

The  three  volumes  -with  the  titles  of  the  French  volumes 
included  are: 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE 

DAWN — MORNING — YOUTH — REVOLT 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE  IN  PARIS 

THE  MARKET  PLACE — ANTOINETTE — THE  HOUSE 

JEAN-CHRISTOPHE:  JOURNEY'S  END 

LOVE    AND    FRIENDSHIP — THE    BURNING    BUSH — THE    NEW 

DAWN 

Some  Noteworthy  Comments 

"  'Hats  off,  gentlemen — a  genius.'  .  One  may  mention  'Jean-Chris- 
tophe'  in  the  same  breath  with  Balzac's  'Lost  Illusions';  it  is  as  big 
as  that.  .  It  is  moderate  praise  to  call  it  with  Edmund  Gosse  'the 
noblest  work  of  fiction  of  the  twentieth  century.'  .  A  book  as 
big,  as  elemental,  as  original  as  though  the  art  of  fiction  began  to 
day.  .  We  have  nothing  comparable  in  English  literature.  .  " — 
Springfield  Republican. 

"If  a  man  wishes  to  understand  those  devious  currents  which  make 
up  the  great,  changing  sea  of  modern  life,  there  is  hardly  a  single 
book  more  illustrative,  more  informing  and  more  inspiring.  — Current 
Opinion. 

"Must  rank  as  one  of  the  very  few  important  works  of  fiction  of  the 
last  decade.  A  vital  compelling  work.  We  who  love  it  feel  that  it 
will  live." — Independent. 

"The  most  momentous  novel  that  has  come  to  us  from  France,  or 
from  any  other  European  country,  in  a  decade." — Boston  Transcript. 

A  22-page  booklet  about  Romain  Rolland  and  Jean-Chris- 
tophe,  with  portraits  and  complete  reviews,  on  request. 

HENRY      HOLT     AND      COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


Ji  1>^"U 

^SBAWfl^ 


\_o- 


s  i  irr    1  1  irr 


. 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


NOV091985 


r-n 

'  r* 


•?»suitinii6> 


P  »V/7»    1^ 

VX^  ^ 

/SHJHERN 


•^-  M""^ 

I'i'^U/BR 


3  115801063  9259 


§ 


i 

00 

I; 


Jg 


